


Wisteria Woodsmoke and Saltwater Ink

by AnnieLee530



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Child Murder, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, F/M, Fantasizing, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Masturbation in Shower, Mrs. Hudson has a niece, Non-Canon Relationship, Original Character - Bella Hudson, Pre-show to post-show, References to Drugs, Self-Harm, chronological order, my first Sherlock fic, song drabbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:53:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 44,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23761129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieLee530/pseuds/AnnieLee530
Summary: Mrs. Hudson's niece, Bella, is brilliant, outgoing, kind, and warm to all she knows. So why on Earth is she mucking about with a stoic, curt, and intimidating man like Sherlock Holmes?Sometimes, a relationship is based in nothing but pure proximity.Chapter Four: Stolen by Dashboard ConfessionalMistletoe, home-cooked meals, meeting parents and New Years Eve - it's Christmas time at 221B!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 61





	1. Angeles (Alternatively, Meeting the Devil)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Did you add up all the cards left to play to zero,  
> And sign up with evil, Angeles?"

Arabella Hudson was not a superstitious person. Okay, maybe not completely superstitious. Did she believe in ghosts? Sure. Did she believe in another world beyond our own? Yeah, why not? There was no concrete evidence to support that those entities did exist, and even less so to prove that they did _not_.

But she was not the type of person to have gut feelings without knowing why. If she was certain about the way a person was or a situation felt, she would express her musings on it, and be able to pinpoint her emotions and the reasons for them right away.

This morning, however, as she slammed her alarm off at 7 am, she got this nauseous tugging in her abdomen, as though there was something not quite right. She thought through what she ate yesterday – maybe she had digested something that had disagreed with her. As she rolled herself out of bed, she brushed that idea off. No – she hardly ate during the semester, there was too much work to do. It always worried Aunt Martha, who was constantly trying to shove food down her throat in an effort to keep her “healthy and strong.” As much as she loved her effervescent and giddy aunt, sometimes she had to roll her eyes at her constant efforts. Bella was 20 now – she could determine for herself whether or not she was eating enough, drinking enough water, sleeping.

Granted, she knew right now that she wasn’t doing enough of any of those things, but when it came to her education, everything else was a secondary thought.

Upon glancing in the bathroom mirror, though, she started to wonder if Aunt Martha was right. Her usually rosy cheeks and rounded face looked sunken, the circles under her eyes a shade too dark, her usually wavy auburn hair a bit too scraggly. Her clothes had started to hang on her a little again – normally she carried a little weight on her, but when she wasn’t eating it disappeared as fast as a lightning strike. She pushed and pulled at the skin on her face with her hands, taking stock of how frail she was starting to look. All in the name of doctorate degrees.

A shower. That would make her feel all the better, and hopefully breathe some life back into her pallid skin.

* * *

By 7:30, Bella was washed, dressed, and traipsing her way down the hall to the kitchen. She had started to hear the telltale signs of breakfast cookery when she stepped out of the shower, and smiled softly as she spotted Aunt Martha tottering around the kitchen in her slippers and bathrobe, her short graying hair covered with a small cap.

Bella grabbed her usual mug out of the cabinet by the sink and snuck up behind her tired aunt, quickly pecking her cheek. “Good morning, Aunt Martha.”

Aunt Martha jumped slightly at the sound of her niece’s voice, but chuckled gently and wrapped an arm around Bella’s head on her shoulder, kissing her still-drying hair. “Good morning, poppet. The kettle’s already hot – help yourself.”

Bella extricated herself from her aunt’s embrace and selected the honey ginseng tea from the little box on the table. She filled her small diffuser with the loose leaves, dropped it into the mug, and topped the cup off with water from the kettle. She peered around her aunt’s arm to see what breakfast was this morning – eggs, toast, tomatoes and some sausage. Bella would be sure to eat every bite she was given, if only to please her aunt.

As she sat at the kitchen table, she saw an unfamiliar newspaper sitting primly on the tabletop. The top read Tampa Bay Times, and the headline stated, in bold letters: HUDSON CASE CLOSED – DEATH PENALTY OF CARTEL LEADER ENSURED BY EVIDENCE FROM INTERNATIONAL DETECTIVE.

Bella breathed out a sigh. “So, Uncle Frank’s gonna bite it then?”

Aunt Martha whirled around then, plates in hand, huffing in her usual exasperated way. “I don’t know that I like your terminology, dear, but yes. Frank was found guilty – won’t be worrying about him anymore.” She set one plate down in front of Bella and sat on the other side of her, watching expectantly for Bella to take a bite. She smiled brighter than the sun streaming through the windows as Bella took not one, but two bites of egg.

“Are you gonna go out there and see him one more time? You know, just to say goodbye, or something?”

Aunt Martha sighed, shaking her head as she picked up her own mug of tea. “Not likely, Bells. Costs a pretty penny to fly out there these days, and after moving you out here, finances are a bit tight, you know.” She sipped her tea, then quickly set about fussing over her previous statement – a common occurrence for her. “Not that I haven’t loved having you here, poppet. Really, I have! You’ve been such a delight to live with, and I never have to worry about you doing things you shouldn’t, and –“

Bella placed a hand over her aunt’s. “I get it, Aunt Martha. It’s alright. I love living here with you as well.” She bit her toast. “I thought you were renting out the upstairs apartment again though, to make up for the money?”

Aunt Martha pursed her lips. “Don’t speak with your mouth full, darling. Two years here and we still can’t seem to knock those American manners out of you.”

Bella smiled around another mouthful of food, but swallowed this time before continuing. “Well? What happened to letting the rooms upstairs? I can’t imagine anybody passing up that opportunity.”

The upstairs flat had been occupied at one point or another by passersby or occasional office workers looking for a home-away-from-home in order to avoid the commute to London every day. No one had ever stayed for long, and more often it ended up being left empty. Bella had considered her aunt’s suggestion of making it her own living space when she had moved in two years ago, but after the unexpected death of her mother, she had felt more comforted by living in closer proximity to her aunt. For the last few months, it sat empty, the only real piece of furniture being the bed frame in the bedroom off the kitchen, the ornate wallpaper peeling in some spots. It was definitely an Aunt Martha creation, the decoration of the apartment. Nothing about it seemed cohesive – some walls painted bright green while some walls had various designs of wallpaper. The wood fireplace and high windows made the room look older, even more incongruous with the wall adornments. It was a sight to see, but other than that, it was a good-sized apartment, with one bedroom down the hall from the kitchen and another up a small flight of stairs on the landing. There was roof access, where Bella often went to practice her dancing, and one bathroom with a claw-foot tub and a shower head.

Aunt Martha clapped her hands at the mention of renting, and scurried off from the kitchen table down the hall to the foyer. Bella heard a rustling of papers, a soft “oh”, and another scuffle of slippers on the floor and her aunt hurried back into the room, a stapled form in her hands. She sat the papers down in front of Bella with a triumphant look.

It was a leasing agreement. Flipping to the last page, Bella could see it was already signed, dated, and the first month’s rent had already been paid in full by an S. Holmes.

“You… already rented it out? That was fast – you only mentioned this a week ago,” Bella mused, sipping her tea to wash down the bit of toast she had nearly choked on when she saw the papers.

Aunt Martha clapped again, her giddy nature seeming to practically bubble over. “Oh I know – it all happened so quickly, dear! I met this man when I was working to make sure your uncle would never harm the world with his presence again. He’ll be moving in this afternoon. He’s a detective – he helps out at Scotland Yard on consult. Very interesting man; handsome, quick-witted, very thorough with his work. He’s the one who ensured your uncle got the death penalty,” she said with a smile, as though this was an achievement worthy of the highest praise.

Bella snorted. “If I didn’t know any better, Aunt Martha, I would say we should be expecting a wedding announcement soon.” She ducked out of the way of her aunt’s swatting hand, laughing.

“Oh, hush child. I can appreciate a man without giving in to carnal needs,” the older woman huffed. “Besides, he’s far too young for me. Only twenty-seven years old, working for Scotland Yard, a graduate chemist. He might be as smart as you are, poppet.”

Bella smiled a little. She didn’t like to brag about her overtly academic brain – though it was often hard to forget whenever she eyed the framed Masters degrees hanging on the wall in the foyer, something her aunt had insisted upon. “Got to let the world know how bright my girl is,” she had said, smiling exuberantly before accidentally driving the hammer into her own thumb again. Bella had hidden her bachelor degrees after the masters had been hung up, so her aunt wouldn’t get any ideas about creating a shrine-like wall of her academic excellence. No doubt she would hide the masters degrees too, once she got her doctorates and Aunt Martha insisted those be framed.

Being a 20-year-old genius, while exhilarating, also wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Bella was always the youngest in her grades, having graduated high school at the age of 14 and earning two bachelor degrees in music and botany by age 17. By the time she moved out to London after her mother died, she was working on her masters, and had finished with both of those just last term. While college was easier to work with due to the mixed ages of students, elementary, middle and high school had been one long nightmare, with bully after bully calling Bella names and pushing her around like a rag doll through the hallways.

She wasn’t proud to be a genius. If she could stop it, she would.

She looked down at the newspaper headline again. “I’ve never heard of a detective who works on a consultant basis. That’s really… original.”

Aunt Martha was back in her chair, cutting her sausages into small bites. “Well, according to him, he’s the only one of them! Invented the job, he said. He only started working with the police earlier this year – some case about a restaurant owner and a bad alibi.”

Bella flicked to the front page of the leasing agreement, and suddenly felt that odd, gnawing sensation in her stomach again.

William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Something about the name sent shivers crawling up her spine. She couldn’t quite put her finger on why, but that name just gave her the oddest feeling. “What kind of a name is Sherlock?” she muttered, skimming the rest of his ‘about me’ page.

“Old English surname, I believe,” Aunt Martha commented, picking up her plate and shuffling to the sink. “I think it’s very unique, don’t you?”

Unique, yes – but something else about this name told Bella there was a lot to know about this William S.S. Holmes.

The roiling of her stomach dampened her appetite considerably, but as she looked down at the remains of her breakfast, she was happy to only log one wasted sausage link and half of a piece of toast. Aunt Martha would at least be pleased she ate something.

Checking her watch, she downed the last of her now-cold tea and hurriedly dumped the leftover bits of her breakfast in the garbage before setting her plate and cup in the sink. “Gotta go, I have an exam in piano today,” she said as she kissed her aunt on the cheek one last time, heading for the door. Aunt Martha waved her out with a smile, and as Bella grabbed her laptop bag and her books, she heard the fuzzy sounds of the television being switched on. She rolled her eyes fondly, grabbed her keys and her cell phone, and slid out of the door.

As she locked the bolt behind her, she noticed that the knocker above the door number was askew, once again. It was as if it moved a little every time the door shut. With a tiny sigh, she righted the brass knocker above the 221B, and headed down Baker Street to the nearby tube station, the uneasiness in her stomach quickly abating as her mind raced with thoughts of the day ahead.

* * *

Trudging the last few steps to the black door of home, Bella sighed, long and heavy, feeling as though she might drown in the weight of the day. Her piano exam was torturous, her professor constantly asking her to find the rhythm and the meaning in her music. She felt stiff as a board from exhaustion, knew that the notes were coming out stilted. She needed to sleep.

As she walked through the front door, she paused momentarily, dropping her bag by her shoes and gingerly setting her books on the key table. That trepid, gnawing uneasiness was slowly creeping back into her system, taking root closer to her heart this time. Something about the home was different. The atmosphere was deeper, darker, but not in a way to cast out the light. It more felt like a thoughtful, pensive presence, rather than an evil one.

She shut the door loudly behind her, hoping to cast out the feeling. It just grew larger.

“Bella?” came Aunt Martha’s lilting voice from… upstairs? Bella looked up the first flight and saw her aunt standing there, wearing her usual turtleneck-and-skirt combo, her cheeks high in color and a breathlessness to her that spoke of work and some heavy lifting. Aunt Martha smiled, almost looking as though she could jump for joy – far more giddy than any other night in the last few weeks. “Oh darling,” she started, waving her hands to usher Bella up the stairs to the apartment above, “our new tenant has arrived! Do come and meet him, please!”

Bella sighed, running a hand through her hair. The wind had snagged it on her walk back from the tube station, and her fingers got caught in a few tangles. “Aunt Martha, I’m really exhausted, and I have so much homework t-“

“Arabella Elaine Hudson,” Aunt Martha called sternly, cocking an eyebrow. “You had better come up here and meet our new neighbor. I know your manners are better than that. Your homework can wait.”

“Mrs. Hudson, it really is alright if your niece isn’t up for it. Maybe another time.”

The deep baritone voice that came wafting down the stairs felt like velvet wrapping around Bella’s ears. Never in her life had she heard a voice that musical, not even when listening to her boyfriend Josh recite his poetry for class. But despite the draw and appeal, the voice only sunk her deeper into her queasiness.

“No, no,” Aunt Martha turned to speak to the voice, wagging a finger, as Bella took the steps up. “She’ll be far too busy with her studies later, I know. Might as well be now.” She smiled at her niece, smoothed a hand over the fly-aways in her hair, and ushered her into the apartment with both hands. “Mr. Holmes, may I present my niece, Bella Hudson.”

The first thing Bella took note of was the lack of boxes. For someone who had moved in only hours before, there were no boxes of books or clothes, nothing wrapped in plastic for protection. There were some new pictures hanging on the walls, a desk already cluttered with papers, stacks of books lining the shelves by the fireplace, not to mention the roaring fire in the grate and the two mismatched chairs sitting in front of it. It looked as though someone had lived here for years, not minutes.

The second thing Bella took note of was the skull on the mantle. Human, she could tell. Not even remotely fake – being a science student, she had seen a fair share of human skeletons. She may only be a botanist, but anatomy was interesting.

Finally, Bella dragged her eyes to the man standing in the middle of the room, and the uneasy feeling she’d been carrying all day suddenly and abruptly stopped.

He stood almost a foot above her in height, his mane of dark brown curly hair and perfect posture adding almost an inch or two to his already towering stature. He wore an immaculate pair of suit pants and a steel gray button-up shirt underneath a dark blue silk dressing gown, a very odd and formal choice for a moving day. His feet were bare, thin, flat. His face was striking in an unconventionally handsome way, with cheekbones so high and strong one would think they could cut themselves just grazing his pale skin.

It was his eyes that captured Bella’s attention more than anything else about his ethereal features. Slender, almond-shaped, and staring right at her, almost _through_ her. The color was incandescent, a combination of green, blue and gold that blended so seamlessly you would think you were staring into the depths of the sea. Bella could get lost in those eyes.

One thing was for certain – he was definitely too extraordinary to have such a plain name like _William_.

“Mr. Holmes,” she offered, sticking out a hand to him. There was a slight tremble to her fingers as she held her hand out for him to take. She chalked it up to exhaustion and not having eaten lunch – it definitely wasn’t intimidation. Nope, she was not intimidated by this man.

He cocked an eyebrow, his intense eyes flicking from her hand to her face and back again. He took two strides forward, and smoothly slid a long, spidery hand into her own. His skin was shockingly warm – she was almost certain his hand would be icy, like that of a vampire. “A pleasure, Miss Hudson.”

There it was again, that rich voice like honey. Bella almost melted into the floor.

“An American?” he continued, the tone of his voice slightly amused as he looked her over. “Interesting. Not many Americans I’ve met are as academically inclined as you are. Not to mention the British people I’ve known who are just as dim. Doctorates in musical arts and botany, and only at the age of 20 – astonishing.”

Bella rolled her eyes over to her aunt, releasing her grip on the man’s hand. She didn’t like that she instantly missed the contact. “I see my aunt has been bragging about me again.”

“Actually, no.”

Bella whipped her head back around to see Mr. Holmes smirking, staring at her as if he were scrutinizing a painting. Then he began to speak – a litany of words that emanated from his mouth a mile a minute. His voice no longer sounded velvety and charming, but suddenly cold and analytical. “In fact, she didn’t even tell me you were her niece. The degrees hanging downstairs on the wall are graduate, not undergraduate, meaning you have a gift for academics if you were willing to earn two. There are not a lot of pictures hanging on the walls in the foyer, and I know Mrs. Hudson has no children having worked with her and her snake of a husband. But there is a photograph of the two of you sitting on the table by the front door, so I assumed close relative, likely a niece or goddaughter. I also heard you drop your books beside you when you walked in the front door – they sounded heavy, likely science books, and by the dark circles under your eyes and the pencil behind your ear, you’re only just starting on your PHDs, or you’d be looking more presentable. You have callouses on the pads of your fingers, and dirt caked under your nails. The callouses are firm and smooth, meaning that you play an instrument, likely multiple instruments, and have for a long period of time. The dirt under your nails speaks of greenhouse work, so likely a botanist. And you can’t possibly be a day over twenty – based on the way you wear your hair and the brand of your jacket.”

Bella’s mouth hung open. It was as though her entire life had just been read off a cue card by a man who had never even known her but for the last three minutes.

With a quick and unabashed movement, Mr. Holmes snapped her mouth shut with two fingers under the chin, muttering “mustn’t catch flies now”.

Bella shook her head, taking a step back. “You have… a gift for observation, mister…” She trailed off. “Sorry, should I call you Mr. Holmes, or William, or Will?”

The tall man threw his head back then, letting out a noise of pure disgust. “Ughhhh, I have always detested that name. _William_. So banal. Sherlock will suffice. Sherlock Holmes.” He paused, then added, “And it’s more the science of deduction, rather than pure observation.”

“Sherlock?” Bella asked, amused, having ignored his last statement. “You really go by Sherlock?”

Sherlock suddenly looked affronted, as though she had offended him. “Is there something wrong with that, Miss Hudson?”

Bella backpedaled. “No, no! Not at all. It just… definitely suits you. You don’t look like a William, so… Sherlock it is then. And, I suppose you can call me Bella.”

He flashed the most charming smile in her direction, and in his soft, honeyed tone again, he said “Well alright then… Bella.”

Bella never wanted to hear her name out of another mouth ever again. It would sound weak by comparison.

“W-well,” she muttered, tripping over her own tongue. “I suppose I should get to my homework. Let me know when dinner is, Aunt Martha.” She managed to make it out the door, patting her aunt on the shoulder as she went, when the voice called out to her, one last time.

“It was a pleasure, Bella. I do hope we’ll talk again soon.”

Bella only waved a hand above her head in farewell and nearly toppled down the stairs in her rush to escape the tense air around the apartment. She made it back to the front door again, and rested her forehead on the cool, black surface, trying to find her breath. She heard the light sound of her aunt chuckling above her.

“I think you may have just charmed the pants off my girl, Sherlock.”

A mild hum came as a reply. “My apologies, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll try to be a little less forward next time.”

“Oh no worries, dear. She’s probably just flustered from school. She’s been working so hard, my Bella. Always been a smart girl.”

The hum came again, this time with no further inquiry or response.

Bella grabbed her books and dashed for her room, not caring if her aunt and Sherlock heard her feet clacking on the floor below. When she finally made it her room and shut the door, she collapsed onto the duvet, her mind reeling. She noticed that the uneasy feeling had crept back through her peripherals, and the vines of discomfort were latching onto her heart like ice. It was as if she had found herself in the den of Hell, and Satan had charmed her into thinking she was somewhere safe and lovely.

She felt as though she had just signed her soul away without thinking. And all she had done was met the man.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply for a moment or two, allowing her heartbeat and mind to slow. When she sat up again, she reached into her bag for her laptop and a notebook, took the pencil out from behind her ear, and got to work on her research project, pushing all thoughts of Sherlock Holmes out of her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Welcome to my fic, Wisteria and Saltwater Ink! I got the name off of one of those "tell me what you associate me with" things on Facebook - it just seemed to fit. I hope you guys will grow to like Bella, I worked very hard on her and hope to expand her much more as we move forward. This fic will not be exclusively "teen" rated. Eventually, when we get there, we'll hit the explicit rating. 0_0  
> Every chapter will be the title of a song - I encourage you to listen to them! Might give a little insight to my mind as well as Bella's and even Sherlock's. I'm gonna try to write him as best as i can, guys. The alternative titles are just titles, so don't look them up on Youtube, haha!  
> Also, this fic will not be standalone. As it is now, it is moments in time between Bella and Sherlock's relationship. There will be gaps, as it spans quite a few years. When we get to the timeline of the actual show, that will be a different fic, and any side stories for each episode will happen here.  
> Alright, well, I hope you like the start to my story. Comments and suggestions are always a joy, so feel free to leave a note on something I might be able to do better on with Sherlock or something about Bella you think might be cool to add. Let me know. Thanks guys!


	2. Everything (Alternatively, In Which We Are Who We Are)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And how can I stand here with you  
> And not be moved by you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T/W: suicide, drug addiction/abuse, self-harm, mental illnesses
> 
> This got to be MUCH longer and MUUUUUUUUCH angst-ier than I anticipated guys, I'm sorry. I hope you still like it though.

If Bella didn’t hate violin music, she certainly did now.

She huffed again, glaring at the ceiling as though it was the cause of the offending noise that had been keeping her up most nights. The lilting, lyrical tune emanating from the floor above was beautiful, yes, but not at 2 in the morning, and not right above her head while she was trying to sleep.

It had been a full month since her strange and mysterious new neighbor Sherlock Holmes had moved in to 221B Baker Street. A full month of that uneasy feeling in her stomach, a full month of feeling as though the Devil himself was the one brushing his teeth in the second floor bathroom, or lighting fires in the grate upstairs every night. And in that month, life had started to develop a new normalcy that Bella wasn’t particularly keen on.

For one thing, Sherlock had a way of sneaking up on you when you would least expect it, and in her less-than-awake state that she was in most days now due to school, he would creep up on Bella like a phantom, silent and swift. One particular occurrence happened just last week – Saturday morning, to be precise. Bella had woken to the smell of fresh coffee, and instantly her body began to tug her in the direction of much-needed caffeine. She had trudged into the kitchen, hair a wild mess, yawning widely with her eyes still half-shut from sleep. She had been standing at the stove, pulling her mug out from the cabinet beneath, when she heard the soft “Good morning, Miss Hudson,” from just over her left shoulder.

She had been so surprised that she had dropped her favorite mug on the floor between their feet, shattering the ceramic. In an effort to steady herself, she had tried to place a hand on the counter top behind her – instead laying her palm fully on the burner that had just been used to warm the kettle not moments before.

She flexed her left hand experimentally under the bandages wrapped around it. Her palm still stung, but the skin was starting to heal beneath the gauze.

Another new “normal” that Bella was beginning to detest was from the mouth of her own aunt. Lately, all Aunt Martha could bear to talk about was Sherlock – how he had helped her fix the jammed mail slot on the front door, how he drank tea with her almost every morning, the compliment he paid to her new dress she wore last Tuesday. They could be discussing something as simple as the weather, and the older woman would be off: “Oh, I never trust a single thing weathermen say anymore. Sherlock said that all weather forcasters are imbeciles, says they can’t even conduct their own science properly.” And then she would giggle softly, and stare fondly at the ceiling above her head, as though Sherlock was listening in to hear her praises.

Every other word out of her mouth was ‘Sherlock’, and while Bella adored her Aunt Martha, she had started to develop the nonsensical urge to place a piece of Duct Tape over her mouth.

Not to mention the constant comings and goings of people up and down the stairs at all hours. All different sorts of people, too – the New Scotland Yard detective inspector (Bella thought his name was Lestrade), a young woman with a sweet face who constantly dressed in thick sweaters (she had smiled at Bella once), and a few times Bella had seen a tall, primly dressed man with a pointed nose climb the steps to the flat above. He always seemed to carry an umbrella with him, even when it wasn’t raining, and his visits were usually met with the sound of something being thrown across a room.

The violin, though, had at first been the only lovely contribution Sherlock had offered. Bella had originally loved hearing the music – the quiet, clean sound of the instrument had thrummed through her veins, and it was clear from the varying selections that he was quite practiced at it. She could recall at least one occasion where she had sat on the bottom step in the foyer, a cup of tea in hand, just listening to him play for almost an hour.

However, tonight, at what was now 2:15 am, all she wanted to do was go upstairs and snap his violin bow in half. He had started playing around 11 pm, and had yet to stop. It had been like this every night for nearly a week now. Every piece sounded mournful, despairing, as though Sherlock was aching for something he was unable to attain. The songs spoke of longing, of battles fought… of love lost.

At least, in that way, Bella could relate. Just two days ago, the longest relationship she had managed to make work fell apart quickly and efficiently. Josh had explained that it was nothing personal, placed the blame on her doctorate work and the lack of time she was giving him, then had walked away after a subtle jab at her intellect, stating, “It isn’t exactly fun to be dating a walking computer”.

And once again, after just over a year, she was alone, broken-hearted, miserable…

And now she could add sleep deprived to that list.

After another ten minutes of tossing about in her bed, trying to block out the music, trying to ignore her aching heart, trying to _sleep_ , Bella gave up and rolled out of bed. She swapped out her pyjama bottoms for a pair of old sweatpants, and tugged her hoodie over her bare arms. She grabbed her dance shoes, her small speaker, and her iPod, and shuffled softly out of her room, tiptoeing down the hall to avoid waking Aunt Martha.

As she ascended the stairs, she saw that the door to the flat was wide open, the music pouring out in waves. It was amazing to her that Aunt Martha could sleep so soundly through it. On her way past, Bella caught a glimpse of the tall detective, his eyes closed, slender fingers moving deftly across the neck of the violin. His long feet were bare, and he wore a pair of soft-looking pyjama pants underneath of his usual dressing gown, this one a hue of dark red, flowing around his statuesque form like blood. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and Bella could see he didn’t carry a single ounce of fat, just sinewy muscle that moved very visibly under his skin. His chest was just as pale as the rest of him – he looked as though he was made of ivory, and the lines from the stretch of his long neck to the cut of his collarbone looked chiseled, perfectly placed as though he were sculpted.

If he knew she was there, he said nothing, and she turned and tiptoed up the last two flights of stairs to the roof.

Once out in the cold, early morning air, Bella felt she could breathe clearly for the first time in days. All of the drama with Josh, the weight of her school schedule, the tension since Sherlock had moved in – it had all made the air around her too thick, too suffocating to properly breathe. She hadn’t danced in about two or three weeks, having been too busy to practice, and with the chill of winter starting to creep in, dancing on the rooftop of the home had seemed impractical.

Tonight though, she just couldn’t resist the pull of her heart, hypothermia be damned.

The street itself was quiet, but there was still the soft noises of London night life echoing across the night, so Bella opted for a softer song, something she could play a little loud without disturbing her neighbors. And maybe it was the constant sound of violin every night for days that had influenced her decision, but as soon as she had flicked through her playlist to ‘Everything’ by Lifehouse, she immediately set about plugging her iPod into the speaker and stepping to the center of the rooftop.

She shut her eyes as the rich, deep cello notes began, followed by the strum of the electric guitar. When the soft voice of the lead singer came in a low whisper, she let her body take over as she began to move in slow, stroking movements, the night breeze playing with her hair as she started to dance.

The song was slow, sensual, and much like Sherlock’s playing, spoke of a longing in Bella’s heart that she was having a hard time grasping. She allowed her mind to open as her body swept through the air – she thought of Josh, and how badly her heart hurt because of him. She thought of her mother, imagined her dancing beside her, her long blonde hair tied back how she liked, her sweet and gentle smile. She thought of Aunt Martha asleep downstairs, and smiled just a little for her caretaker. She thought of Mia… that triggered a deep, throbbing ache that rippled through her body like ice.

As the music pushed into a faster, more intense bridge, she in turn pushed harder in her dance, trying to ignore the sudden onslaught of remembrance. The memories washed over her like sheets of rain – the cold night, the screaming, the stains on the couch, Mia’s limp body, the sirens outside as paramedics rushed in…

Bella could feel the hot tears stinging in her eyes and running defiantly down her face, but she ignored them, forcing herself to continue. She leapt and spun, her moves graceful and agile, and as the song came to a close, she wrapped herself in a hug with her own arms, finally allowing the tears to seep out.

“Where did you learn to do that?”

Bella nearly jumped three feet in the air at the sound of the velvety voice behind her. Her hand fluttered to her heart, and as she fought to catch her breath – which had left due to both exertion and surprise – she stared at her audience member indignantly. “You really need to stop doing that. You already made me lose the first few layers of skin on my palm. Scaring me so much that I fall off the roof seems extreme.”

Sherlock continued to stare at her pensively, his eyes following her as she moved to shut the music off before the next song started up. He had slipped on a long, warm-looking coat over his dressing gown, but he still wore no shirt. “Your dancing,” he said, jutting his pointed chin in her direction. “It lacks the polish and practice of a trained professional. Who taught you?”

Bella narrowed her eyes at her intruder, scoffing. “I apologize if I disturbed you, Mr. Holmes, but I’m not exactly up for playing twenty questions at almost three in the morning.” She stuffed her iPod back into her jacket pocket, sat on the roof ledge, and started removing her shoes. She wiped at her eyes, her vision still blurred by tears.

“You’re crying.”

Bella rolled her eyes, muttering “No shit,” under her breath as she kept her gaze down on her feet, not wanting to look up at the detective who was blocking the door that led back downstairs.

A pair of slippers came into view then, and Bella looked up into those inquisitive eyes. They were a darker green tonight, the color of moss in the rain, no sign of the blue she was used to. Bella wondered for a moment if he wore color contacts regularly – his eyes were always different whenever she saw him.

“It’s called sectoral heterochromia – I was born with it.”

Bella shook her head. “I’m sorry, what?”

“My eyes.” Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, said eyes glinting with the slightest bit of mirth. “You were just saying how my eyes are always different colors. It’s called sectoral heterochromia. My eyes are both green and blue, and they change color depending on the light.”

Oh great. Bella was saying her thoughts aloud now. She really needed to sleep.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he continued, wrapping his coat tight around himself and sitting beside her, his sudden proximity alarming to Bella. He smelled of honeysuckle and tobacco ash. “Who taught you to dance like that?”

Bella sighed, her hands coming up to rub at her eyes again as she stared above their heads at the stars, her arms wrapping around herself. “My mother was a professional dancer in the States. She taught me.”

Sherlock nodded, letting out a breath. “That makes sense. You lacked finesse in your movements – they were sloppy and not polished at all. I took dance lessons as a child myself, and I know that most British dance teachers really make sure to iron out every detail in your movements – American dancers lack that precision. You didn’t seem to have any of that technique. So tell me, do you dance like that for yourself only, or do you perform for audiences who wouldn’t know the difference?”

Bella was appalled. Not once, in the last month that she had seen this man, had she ever heard him say something so bluntly and rudely. He was direct, sure, but never mean.

“You know,” she huffed, grabbing her things and standing, “if you didn’t like my dancing, Mr. Holmes, you didn’t have to watch. And for your information, though it really is none of your business, I dance the way my mother taught me because in the last two years since she died, it’s the only way I can feel close to her memory.”

Sherlock shook his head minutely, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “Sentiment. The weak link in the chain of mankind.” He gazed up at her, his eyes challenging. “For one so smart as you, Miss Hudson, I’m amazed you feel it so strongly as you do. Weakness does not become you.”

The sound of her hand slapping his skin fizzled in the air around them, the energy crackling like fireworks. Now both of her palms would sting tonight.

Sherlock sat frozen, his face now angled to his right, his hand coming up to brush his reddening cheek. His eyes were wide with shock, and his mouth hung open slightly. Bella could feel her own face slowly heating, the adrenaline of the moment ebbing away, being replaced by even more hurt and anger.

“You are an ass,” she snarled, trying very hard to keep her voice from trembling. “You come out here when I want to be alone, you criticize my dancing, and then you mock me for _mourning my mother_. I hardly know you – I didn’t ask for your opinions, and you should not have offered them, as you hardly know me in turn.” She was really starting to cry now, and she could care less. Maybe the tears would make him feel some form of guilt. “You seem determined to be in my life, Mr. Holmes, but I’ll make something very transparent – I don’t like you. Stay _away_ from me.”

She turned on her heel and started for the door, and had her hand on the knob when the voice came from behind her.

“Wait.”

She had no idea why she was hesitating. All she wanted was to be away from this man – this cold, unfeeling robot of a person who was slowly starting to drive her insane. But for one reason or another, her hand dropped from the cold doorknob, her shoulders starting to shiver from tension and chill.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered, his voice colored with remorse. “I’m not what you would call a ‘people person’ – I don’t often experience human emotion in the same way other people do. Most psychologists would suggest I’m autistic. I prefer to call it sociopathic.” He chuckled darkly, no humor behind it. “I should not have said anything about you being weak. You aren’t. You losing your mother and your sister must have been difficult, especially when you are so young, and with your father in jail…” He gulped audibly – Bella imagined his Adam’s apple bobbing in his long throat. “I truly am sorry, Bella.”

It was the first time he had said her name since they met.

She turned slowly, coming back to the ledge, her shoes and speaker hanging by her sides, held by lifeless hands. Sherlock smiled sadly, patting the spot beside him as she slowly sunk back down. She dropped her belongings and put her head in her hands, breathing deeply through her teeth.

“How did you know?” she asked, turning her head towards him, avoiding his eyes. “About my sister? And my father? What did you ‘deduce’?” She said the word with bite, and his second loud swallow was enough reward for her ears.

His voice once again took on a monotonous edge, as though he were reading nothing but cold, hard data off of a sheet. “The small tattoo on the inside of your right wrist,” he offered. “Small, black, just one word - Mia. Obviously it isn’t to honor your mother, otherwise it would likely say “Mom”, or something of that ilk. Wouldn’t be to memorialize a friend either – you don’t appear to be the type to get tattoos frequently, or to honor people in such a way. It took a lot of willpower for you to even get this one, which means you likely did it because the person had wanted to get a matching tattoo with you but never got the chance. Matching tattoos are usually something reserved for family or significant others. I’ve seen the boy you’ve been dating, and it definitely appears you are not attracted to the same sex, so the female name on your wrist must be that of your sister.” He paused to take a long breath before issuing another tirade. “The knowledge of your father is simple – I’m the one who ensured his brother’s death, I know he was involved and will spend the remainder of his life in prison.” He stopped finally, and the caring, apologetic tone crept back into his voice, making it deeper. “How did she die? Mia?”

Bella scoffed, starting to feel the tears in the corners of her eyes again. Damn. “Why do you care?” she spat. She knew she was being curt, but she could care less at this point – anything to throw this prying jerk off his rhythm.

He sighed, and Bella felt him shuffle a little closer to her on the ledge. For one so analytic and cold, he really had no issues with invading personal space. Very gingerly, he reached for her right wrist. She nearly recoiled, but instead merely tensed, hoping it would keep him from touching her. He was not deterred however, and tenderly turned her arm over, exposing the small tattoo, his thumb brushing over it back and forth ever so lightly. His caress felt like the soothing cool of aloe vera on a burn, and Bella allowed herself to relax.

She had always been a very tactile person – touching people brought her a better sense of their emotions, and she in turn got to help people carry their burdens. By the gentle, almost reverent way he was holding her wrist, his long thumb just skimming over her inked flesh, she could see he was nothing more than curious. Curious… and apologetic.

She finally turned to look at him, and he wore an expression very different from his usual cocky smirk. He looked almost sad.

“It was a drug overdose,” she replied, allowing a few tears to escape. She breathed deeply once. “Intentional. Mia had a lot of problems – mental health issues. She was schizophrenic, manic depressive… she would hear voices, dissociate. She had found out about our dad’s involvement in Uncle Frank’s cartel, and somehow managed to get her hands on some heroin. Became an addict, just to get the voices to shut up. And one night, after a particularly bad episode, she just… couldn’t take it anymore.”

Her voice broke on the last word, and she allowed a sob to escape. She ripped her arm from Sherlock’s grasp and bent forward, resting her head on her knees, trying to breathe evenly. The cold made her shiver even harder, as suppressed sobs wracked her body.

She sat up instantly when she felt a solid, heavy warmth spread across her shoulders and back. She almost thought Sherlock had draped himself across her, but no. He had stood in front of her and wrapped his long Belstaff coat around her.

“You were shivering,” he offered when she looked up at him questioningly. His dressing gown was still open, his chest exposed to the frigid night air.

“You’ll freeze. You’re hardly wearing the right clothes for this weather.”

The corners of his mouth turned up just slightly, and he turned his head up to the moon. “I’ll be alright. My body temperature is naturally higher anyhow.”

In the few moments of quiet that followed, Bella took a moment to really study the man in front of her. In the shadows of the night, he somehow looked longer, the planes of his body sharper, more angular. He looked elegant in the light from the moon, the snow-white skin of his chest almost seeming to glow, and from this close up she could see a light smattering of golden hair across his pectorals. The dark hair on his head framed his face, his sharp cheekbones jutting out. She hadn’t noticed before, but he was looking even thinner than usual, his cheeks a little sunken, and the circles under his eyes spoke of restless nights.

Even in this state, he was the most alluring man she had ever seen.

“Stop it.”

Bella shook her head, coming out of her daze. “I’m sorry?”

“Stop staring at me like that. I don’t like being ogled.”

She muttered an apology under her breath, wrapping his coat further around her as the breeze floated by them. She could smell the same sweet and ashy scent again, this time stronger, and something else mingled with it – a strong, earthy scent that she couldn’t place a finger on. She guessed it was just Sherlock’s own musk. It was intoxicating.

She nearly jumped when he sat back down beside her again, huffing minutely as he ran a hand through his tousled curls. He gestured to her bandaged left hand. “I am sorry about that by the way. Has it been bothering you overmuch?”

Bella shrugged, tugging the sleeve of her hoodie over her hand and burrowing deeper into his thick coat. She was practically swimming in the fabric, and it felt cozy and warm, like a blanket. She was loathing the time when she would have to return it. “It’s a burn, of course it stings. But it will heal.”

He stood suddenly then, and she noticed that her dance shoes and speaker were already held in one of his large hands, the other extended out in front of her face, palm up. She looked from the hand, to Sherlock’s neutral expression, and back to the hand again. “What?”

He huffed slightly. “I’m offering you a hand up. I have a burn salve in my flat – I have suffered quite a few remarkable injuries over the years, as is the nature of my job. As a chemist, I have had my fair share of burns, and the salve I have is, based on my experimentation, the best on the market. Aids the healing process while soothing the sting. I’m more than happy to share it – come along.”

Bella hesitated, her hands starting to tremble at the thought of being alone with this mysterious and devastatingly handsome man, in his flat, with her aunt just below. She wasn’t sure if he was genuinely just trying to do the neighborly thing and help her, or if he intended to lock the door behind them and do unspeakable, criminal things to her. Such was the curious nature of Sherlock Holmes.

He rolled his eyes, pushing his hand further under her nose. “I’m not going to take you back to my flat and kill you, if that’s what you think. I just figure, as the burn is my fault anyhow, the least I can do is relieve the pain.” His expression softened a tad, his eyes suddenly shifting from the dark green of the forest to the pale blue-green of the sea. “Please.”

Without conscious thought, Bella slipped her right hand into Sherlock’s. He helped her to her feet, dropped her hand, and extended an arm for her to walk in front of him. She wordlessly began walking, and mentally chastised herself for wishing he had maintained the contact just a bit longer.

* * *

The plush comfort of the armchair by the fire felt like heaven to Bella after having spent all that time in the early-morning cold. The chill slowly seeped away as she tucked herself further into the deep, soft seat, wrapping Sherlock’s coat around her whole body as she brought her knees up to her chest.

Sherlock’s flat was remarkable. Since that first day, she hadn’t had much of an opportunity to examine it. The shelves were heaped with books of all sizes and colors, everything from thin paper manuscripts to massive hardcover tomes. There was a knife sticking upright in the mantle, a stack of papers pinned by the tip – Aunt Martha would kill him for ruining her hardwood fireplace. The odd picture of the skull on the other side of the room behind the sofa mirrored the actual skull on the mantle, just beside the knife. The two objects sitting together above the fire looked ominous and foreboding, very much like the owner of them.

Said owner was clamoring about in his kitchen, setting about preparing a kettle and searching through every drawer within arm’s reach for the burn salve he had promised. Just as the kettle began to whistle, Bella heard an ‘a-ha!’ from behind her, and the whistling abruptly stopped. She heard the light clinking of cups on a platter, and then Sherlock rounded the chair, carrying a tray containing cups, sugar, the kettle, and a small blue and white bottle that resembled a tube of toothpaste. The writing on the outside of the bottle looked like Russian, one of the languages she had yet to learn.

“Sugar?” Sherlock asked suddenly, holding a cube between his fingertips.

Bella looked up, startled from her scrutiny of the bottle. She hadn’t noticed he had already poured the tea. “Umm, no. Thank you.” She paused, then said, “If you have honey, I’ll take that.”

He shrugged and plopped two cubes into his own cup, turning back to the kitchen to rummage once again. He returned with a spoon and a small pot of rather dark honey with a small brick of real honeycomb floating inside.

“Killer bee honey,” he offered, handing her the pot and her mug of tea. “It’s got a sharper flavor than that of regular clover honey or any other sort. I get it from a local beekeeper in Sussex who lives near my parents.”

Bella scooped a small spoonful out of the jar and stirred it into her hot tea, not even bothering to ask what the tea itself was. The first sip was delightful – smooth and aromatic, with that sharp bite of the honey that Sherlock spoke of. “It’s really wonderful,” Bella mused, setting her mug down and curling back into the chair with a sigh.

Sherlock took a long drink from his own cup, then moved swiftly with a wave of his dressing gown, coming to sit in a cross-legged position on the floor in front of her, the salve bottle deposited into his lap. He held out a palm, crooking his fingers twice, beckoning for her injured hand.

Cautiously, Bella pushed the sleeve of the hoodie away from her bandaged appendage, offering it to him, palm up. He wordlessly unwrapped the gauze, his spidery fingers moving gracefully, and he took care to be gentle when he removed the final piece from her raw palm.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered, taking in the patches of deflated blisters and the tender pink skin. “These are nearly second degree burns. How did you manage to handle that pain without a hospital?”

Bella shrugged, wincing as Sherlock gently prodded one of the larger reddened spots on the heel of her palm. “I’ve dealt with my fair share of pain.”

Sherlock went to push the sleeve of the jacket further up Bella’s arm. It was a simple movement – just trying to expand his work space – but she sat frozen as he exposed her naked forearm, and the lines like tally-marks running the expanse of ivory skin. Freckles dotted across her flesh here and there, light in contrast to the stark red-brown of the scars, some as old as five years, some as new as two days.

Bella tried to pry her hand away swiftly, but Sherlock held tight to her wrist, and she stopped struggling. He didn’t comment – only raised a single eyebrow, then popped open the cap of the bottle with his free hand.

She sighed as he poured some of the gel onto her palm, the cooling sensation making her sink deeper into the chair. She moved her right hand to spread the substance herself, but instead, Sherlock placed the bottle on the floor, and began to gently rub the salve into her wounds, his fingers gentle, barely even grazing her skin.

“Let me know when you can’t feel the sting anymore,” he murmured, putting so much focus into the work that one would think he was creating a masterpiece.

Bella monitored his ministrations with wide eyes, taking in every small circle of his fingertips, every gentle press of his thumbs on the healing blisters. When she spoke, she realized she had been holding her breath. “Umm… I don’t feel it.”

Sherlock nodded, keeping his eyes on his work, and started to apply more pressure, massaging Bella’s hand with the salve, making sure to press the medication into every split of skin, every raw, red spot. Bella leaned her head back and closed her eyes, breathing deeply. She felt the aches of the night, both physical and mental, drain themselves from her with every pass of Sherlock’s skilled fingers.

“How old are they?”

Bella knew what he meant without asking. “I started when I was fifteen, just after Mia died. The most recent ones are from two days ago.”

Sherlock stopped, his grip tightening for a second. Bella let her eyes flutter open, meeting his hard gaze.

“You really shouldn’t do that, you know. There are more constructive ways of dealing with grief and anger,” he said, an edge of agitation to his voice. Why should he care?

“Oh, like what?” Bella asked, her eyes catching on the violin set on the desk, the bow resting along the table’s edge. “Like playing violin at all hours of the night? Keeping your neighbors awake?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Was that why you were on the roof tonight? I disturbed your sleep?”

Bella rolled her eyes, sitting up a bit. “Well, it wasn’t the reason I went to the roof. But it was definitely the reason I was unable to sleep.” She shook her head. “Your playing is absolutely lovely, Sherlock, but not in the middle of the night.”

Sherlock smiled then, his fingers pausing once more.

“What?”

“That’s the first time you called me Sherlock since we met.”

Bella huffed, leaning back again. “Over the course of the last hour or so, you’ve watched me dance, I’ve slapped you, I’ve admitted to you some of my terrible past, you made me tea, you’ve seen my scars, and now you’re massaging my hand. Safe to say we can be on a first name basis.” She grimaced then, shame coming to the forefront of her mind. “I am sorry. About the slap.”

Sherlock grazed his cheek, which was only a shade deeper than his actual skin tone now. “No harm done. After all,” he chuckled, “can’t say I didn’t deserve it. I did cause you to burn your hand. I kept you up all night with my playing. I mocked your dancing, called you weak… Being slapped is probably the least you could have done to me.”

Bella laughed then, and Sherlock smiled widely, the lines around his eyes crinkling. She admired him for a moment, and decided what the hell, she could say what she liked. “You have a great smile.”

Said smile faltered, and Sherlock pursed his lips, searching Bella’s eyes for a moment. “Your dancing was lovely.”

Bella frowned at him. “I thought my dancing was unpolished and lacked finesse, as you put it.”

“It does. However, there’s a rawness to it that is actually quite appealing to see. Very… emotional. As a practiced ballroom dancer, all I wanted to do was scrutinize every little thing you were doing incorrectly. But, as a passing observer and a man who enjoys dancing as a hobby – you were wonderful.”

Bella could feel the blush clouding her cheeks, heat making her feel over-warm in the chair, in his coat. She hadn’t even realized his fingers had stopped their massaging; he was simply holding her hand between his two, and she marveled at how small her hand looked compared to his large ones. He followed her eyes, pressed her hand gently, then released it, swinging back up on his feet and taking another long draught from his cup.

“What is the reason?” he asked unexpectedly, moving back into the kitchen to retrieve more supplies. “For your scars, I mean. Clearly something must have upset you recently if the freshest ones are from two days ago.”

Bella shrugged, picking at a loose thread in one of the button holes on his coat. “You mentioned my boyfriend earlier, Josh?” When she heard a hum in the affirmative, she continued. “Well – he broke up with me.”

All noise behind her stopped, and suddenly Bella felt eyes boring into the back of her skull, tension beginning to swirl around her. She kept her eyes forward as she heard his feet padding on the hardwood floor, back to the front of her chair. When she finally found the courage to look up again, he didn’t look angry at all. He looked to be… disappointed?

“Well, I suppose I was wrong about you then,” he muttered softly, crossing his legs again as he sat on the floor, a first aid kit propped on one of his knees. “Which is unfortunate, because I am very rarely wrong.”

Bella frowned, biting at the corner of her bottom lip as Sherlock took her injured hand again, a little rougher this time. “What do you mean, you were wrong?”

Sherlock shook his head, his dark curls falling into his eyes as he unwrapped a fresh sterile bandage, ripping the paper casing open with his teeth. He spit the tissue out and placed the bandage down, pressing Bella’s hand flat between his two palms to ensure the placement of the white square over her injuries. He was unraveling fresh gauze when he spoke again.

“You injured yourself over a _boy_. I was wrong – you are weak.”

It took quite a lot of willpower not to slap him again. Bella had always had a short fuse, and when her temper flared she was worse than a white-hot fire poker. She knew where to prod her enemy, but with Sherlock, it was difficult. While her anger was starting to boil over, she had no idea how to counterattack. She knew so little about him that it was hard to find purchase, grab onto something and shove it back at him.

At that moment, however, as he bent over his work on her hand, unaware of the storm brewing in her mind, Sherlock pushed the sleeves of his dressing gown up around his pointed elbows.

And suddenly, Bella found her ammunition.

“ _I’m_ weak?” she whispered through clenched teeth. Sherlock paused, and Bella took the opportunity to catch him off guard. Despite the mild pain in her palm, she twisted her left forearm around his right one, grabbing him by the elbow and straightening out the joint. The track marks stood out cleanly, dark spots and lines that spoke of frequently used injection sites. “You’re a fucking _drug addict_ , and you have the nerve to call me weak for cutting myself?!”

Sherlock whipped his arm out of her grasp, quickly standing and putting distance between the two of them, the first aid kit upended, contents rolling away across the floor. As he paced away from her, Bella began to take note of all that she had and had not noticed in their time together thus far. His erratic behavior and quick-thinking mind should have been enough to trigger a thought about his sobriety long before tonight, but after having spent the last hour talking and being in his close proximity, Bella was silently kicking herself for ignoring the signs. Long late hours playing the violin, his sunken cheeks and the dark circles beneath his eyes – and only now was Bella noticing the shaking in his suddenly empty hands, devoid of something to hold or work on.

He was in withdrawal.

He spun on the spot then, his nostrils flaring. With his high cheekbones and forehead, he almost resembled a dragon blowing steam. “That is none of your business.”

Bella scoffed, rolling her eyes languidly. “Tell that to my aunt whose husband ran a drug cartel. My aunt, who hates all chemical substances that don’t clean surfaces. My aunt, who allows you to live under her roof while you get high.”

His eyes went wide, his arms starting to hang limp at his sides. “Please don’t tell her. I was evicted from my last flat because of my habits, _please_ keep this between us.”

“Why should I? I certainly don’t want an addict living just above my head.”

Suddenly he was right above her, his arms caging her into the chair. His eyes had shifted to a vibrant green now, the pupils blown so wide that all she could see of the bright viridian was a thin ring around the black abyss of his stare. His jaw was clenched, the muscles ticking on one side of his face as he fought to maintain control. He looked more than angry now – he looked wild and murderous.

“I,” he breathed, “am _not_ an addict.” He leaned closer to Bella now, and she could feel the heat of his breath swirling between her parted lips. “I’m a user.”

Bella laughed hollowly, and Sherlock recoiled at the sound. Despite her reaction, she began to feel the telltale burn of tears appearing in the corners of her eyes. “You think I don’t know the difference? Or did I not just tell you my own sister _died_ of a heroin overdose?”

That got him.

Instantly, Sherlock took stock of the situation and backed off, his hands out in front of him in a plea of surrender. He winced as he noticed a tear starting to make a track down Bella’s cheek. In the last hour or more, he had made her cry twice.

He walked until the backs of his knees hit the chair opposite of Bella, and he sunk into it, his head falling into his hands. He grabbed at his curls, and Bella heard him gulping, as though he were trying to find the words. She wiped at her eyes and stood from the chair, shrugging his jacket off of her shoulders.

“I won’t tell anyone,” she murmured, loud enough so he could hear. “I won’t say a word. But you have no right to go around calling anyone weak, or stupid, or any other possible insult you can think of. You don’t know me – you don’t know my mind, or my life. My brain is too high-functioning for any person to comprehend and follow. The boy who dumped me said it was impossible to keep up with dating a ‘walking computer.’” She took a step towards him, and delicately placed a hand on his head. He didn’t move. “I know you must know what that’s like. You’re brilliant, Sherlock. You make no move to appear otherwise. But you know how isolating, how disappointing it can be. You have people visit you, but other than that, you’re always alone.”

“I like being alone,” Sherlock whispered, barely audible from under his hands. “Alone protects me.”

Bella shook her head minutely, her thumb softly stroking through Sherlock’s hair. “Alone can’t protect you. Alone leads to negative habits, like your drug addiction or my self-abuse. People can protect you. Some can hurt you, yes, but the ones that are loyal, the ones that love you, they can protect you. Even from yourself.”

Sherlock continued to sit, frozen, as Bella’s thumb swept back and forth across his scalp. When she finally lifted her hand and turned to grab her things and go, his pale hand shot out, grabbing her by the wrist. She looked back at him.

His eyes had gone soft now – baby blue replacing the sharp green from his outburst. He looked up at her through the curls that had fallen into his eyes, and his expression spoke volumes. There was an arduous battle happening in his mind, it was clear. She knew what that was like, to fight with your own self-doubt.

He tugged gingerly on her wrist, encouraging her to come close and sit in front of his chair. She hesitated for just a moment, before kneeling in front of him and tucking her legs underneath her. Wordlessly, she watched as his nimble fingers finished with the bandaging of her burnt hand, wrapping the gauze around her wrist and up over the heel of her palm. While he worked, Bella searched the floor from her position and nabbed the scissors and gauze tape – they hadn’t gone far. She handed each instrument to him as he needed them, and by the time he was done, Bella’s injured hand sat in his large palm, wrapped securely from her wrist to the knuckles at the base of her fingers. By comparison to her own shoddy taping job, Sherlock’s handiwork looked professional, medical grade, as though he had done this before.

As they sat, both staring at their hands, Sherlock closed his fingers around Bella’s thumb, squeezing gently. She gripped his hand in turn, the burn on her palm only aching now. He looked up at her then, and suddenly Bella realized how close they were to one another, his lips mere inches from her nose. She felt his warm breath ghosting across her face – it smelled herbal and sweet, like his tea. His eyes bored into her own, searching for a moment, before they crinkled in a soft, sweet smile.

“I amend my earlier statement,” he uttered. “You aren’t weak.”

Bella bit her lip, smiling. “Neither are you, Sherlock. We aren’t weak for indulging in vices. We’re just…” she searched for the right word, and reached out to grip the inside of his elbow, her thumb brushing the injection sites. “We’re just damaged.”

“Damaged,” he agreed, nodding once.

They sat still for another moment, eyes carefully studying the person before them, before Sherlock stood abruptly from his chair, swiftly removing his hand from Bella’s. She sat back, watching as he started to pace back and forth, agitated again.

“I apologize,” he said, a slight tremble to his voice. He stopped, his arms held out at his sides by the elbows, as though he were asking for an embrace. His hands clenched and unclenched around the air. “I don’t often deal with complex human emotion like this.”

Suddenly, without warning, he slapped himself once across the face, sharply, the sound jarring Bella from her place on the floor. She jumped up quickly to her feet as Sherlock worked his jaw, his eyes going wide from the shock of the pain. Then he closed his eyes with a soft groan, brought his hands up to encircle his face, and breathed in once. He opened his eyes on the exhale, and his mask of indifference fell fast into place like prison bars slipping shut.

“That’s much better,” he whispered, dropping his hands back to his sides. He shook his head, and immediately picked up his violin off the table, tucking it under his chin. “Please, have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the armchair with his bow. “Any requests?”

Picking up her cup of tea apprehensively, Bella sat back in the chair, tucking Sherlock’s long coat over the back of it. She curled up into the cushions again, and took a sip – it was colder now, but not unbearable. “Umm… no. Play whatever comes to you.”

Sherlock smirked before placing the bow on the strings. “Good answer - I don’t take requests.”

* * *

A loud pop followed by a shallow splatter had Bella jolting upright from her slumber, her eyes immediately squinting as the sun streaming through curtains on the wide window ahead blinded her. Odd, she didn’t remember the window in her room being right in front of her bed.

_Oh._

She wasn’t in her bed. She was still in Sherlock’s flat.

“Sorry,” came the deep baritone of her neighbor from behind, obviously busy with something in the kitchen. “Experimentation can’t be entirely silent. I’m amazed that it was that which woke you, and not the tea kettle or the broken beaker, or the –“

Bella stuck a hand up above her head in an effort to silence him. He fell quiet, and she took an opportunity to relax back into the chair, allowing her mind to wake up.

As her eyes adjusted, she noticed a few things. Her tea cup, which last night had been empty before she had even begun to feel an inkling of exhaustion, was now full again with dark, strong coffee. The scent of it aroused her other senses, and she greedily took the cup in hand, sipping tentatively. It was bold and rich, with a little sweetness – very much like the coffee her aunt kept downstairs.

“I had your aunt bring up some coffee for you. I don’t usually keep any here. I noticed your breathing pattern started to change about ten minutes ago – thought you might want something to help you wake up,” the voice spoke again, still detached.

Bella hummed gratefully, sipping again. She also noted that Sherlock’s long coat, which she had draped over the backrest of the chair, was now spread across her body like a blanket, covering everything below her collarbone. She tucked her chin to her chest and breathed in – that same ash and honeysuckle smell remained, and she smiled to herself. She had started to acquaint the unique scent with a feeling of security, and she closed her eyes for a moment, bathing in the sense of safety and warmth, despite her surroundings.

Reluctantly leaving the coat on the chair, she stood slowly, going up on her tiptoes into a full-body stretch, her coffee held securely in her right hand. She turned around toward the kitchen, and a small smile crept onto her face. Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, goggles on over his eyes, a champagne bottle uncorked in one hand as he jotted down notes with the other. He had a whole lineup of different champagne bottles beside him – it looked like he had just begun whatever experiment he had been working on.

“Case work, is it?” Bella questioned, coming a little closer as she sipped her coffee again. He still looked exhausted – the circles under his eyes looked worse, if that were possible – but he was now dressed, a white button-up shirt on underneath of his (now blue) dressing gown, his pyjama pants replaced with slim-cut suit trousers. Once again, Bella marveled at how incongruous his dress was to the work he did. She glanced quickly at the clock – only 11 am, shockingly, and he was already in full dress.

“Yes,” he muttered, dotting his pen on the paper beside him before glancing up. “Trying to figure out which kind of champagne has the most pounds of pressure behind the cork. Victim dropped dead at a dinner party, seemingly unexplainable. Everyone suggested poison or some other foul play.” At this, he turned his eyes up directly to meet hers, the side of his mouth curling upward. “But nobody but me seemed to notice the small welt on the back of the victim’s head. A man’s freedom depends on my getting this right, so…” He grabbed another bottle, and gesturing for Bella to step back, he pulled the cork and allowed the bottle to erupt with a pop, the issuing liquid landing in a plastic tub at his feet. He bit his lip and began to write his observations.

Bella sipped her coffee, thinking for a moment. “Was the party catered?”

He furrowed his eyebrows and met her eyes. Today his gaze was a mix of gold and blue, like sunflowers against a clear sky. “Catered?”

She nodded, leaning against the doorframe casually, as though she had done so many times before. “Yeah. Catered.”

He continued to look stupefied. “Yes, I believe it was. In fact the suspect in custody for the supposed murder is a waiter with the company. Why do you ask?”

“Well, wouldn’t it make sense to just call the catering company and ask what champagne they served that night? Rather than completing all of this experimentation just to establish one element of the problem? If you know the brand of champagne, this experiment is unnecessary.”

He froze, and Bella honestly wondered for a moment if his brain had malfunctioned. He set down the bottle he had been holding, lifted the goggles from his eyes to his high forehead, and started patting his pockets in search of his cell phone.

Having found his prize, he stood, unlocking the phone and beginning to type. “How did I not think to do that?” he muttered to himself, slapping a hand on top of his head. “It’s so simple, and here I am wasting time, how in the _hell_ did I not just think to make a phone call?”

Bella sipped her cup again, smirking into her coffee. “Sometimes a second set of eyes isn’t all a bad thing.”

He looked up at her, almost appearing shocked to see that she was still standing there. He quickly dialed and pressed the phone to his ear, bracing one hand on the table. As he waited for the line to be picked up, Bella felt her stomach rumble softly – time to devote herself to primary urges.

“Okay,” she breathed, hoisting herself off the wall. “I’m going to go get on with my day. You have a good one, alright?” She saw him nod without looking at her, and before turning down the stairs she said, “And thank you for last night. It was… nice, to have someone to talk to.”

He didn’t say anything, but he flashed his eyes to her briefly, a small smile flitting across his wide mouth, before someone answered the phone on the other end and he was off, words tumbling out of his mouth like the champagne flowing from the bottle just moments before.

Bella tottered down the stairs to the main foyer, turning into Aunt Martha’s apartment. She smiled when she spotted her aunt at the kitchen table, a crossword puzzle in hand. She came behind her, kissing the top of her head. “Good morning.”

Aunt Martha let out a small sound of surprise, and then smiled at her niece, setting her puzzle down. “Hello to you, darling. Glad to see you got some decent sleep last night! Did you thank Sherlock for letting you stay?”

Bella nodded, taking her usual seat across from her aunt, scratching the back of her head. She looked down into her coffee, her thumbs drumming out a tune on the lip of the cup. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up. Sherlock’s violin was keeping me up all night and I felt the urge to go to the rooftop. He came out to talk with me, and we ended up talking all through the night. I didn’t even realize I had fallen asleep up there.” She lifted her left hand, showing off Sherlock’s handiwork. “He also re-bandaged my hand for me, let me use this burn salve he had.”

“Oh, that reminds me!” Aunt Martha exclaimed, reaching a hand into her skirt pocket. She produced the small blue and white tube of burn medication, setting it upright on the cap in front of Bella’s coffee cup. “Sherlock told me to give you that – said he can get more, and you’re in more demand of it right now anyhow.”

Bella picked up the tube, once again admiring the language inscribed along the plastic. She smiled as she set it back down. “When did you see him? It’s only eleven, and he's working.”

“I’ve told you, he has tea with me nearly every morning, dear,” Aunt Martha giggled, leaning back in her kitchen chair. She steepled her hands together over her small stomach, breathing deeply. “He brought that and your other belongings – they’re in your bedroom. I asked him if he wanted me to come and get you so you wouldn’t disturb him while he worked, but he insisted on letting you sleep. Said you needed it.”

Bella took another sip, letting out a small huff of laughter. “It’s more _him_ that needs the sleep, I’d say. Poor man looks like he’ll collapse from exhaustion at a moment’s notice.” She set her cup down, leaning forward inquisitively. “I’m actually shocked that his playing hasn’t kept _you_ up at all. I feel like I haven’t slept all week because of his nightly concerts.”

Aunt Martha’s face suddenly turned serious, and she sat up straight. “Well, he warned me he would be up late nights, dear. Even brought me some earplugs – I should have shared them, I’m sorry. Originally he just told me he would be working late for a while on a case. This morning, though, he decided to tell me the truth. Said he was actually going through withdrawals this whole time.” She reached for Bella’s hand across the table, stroking the back of her hand with her thumb. “I know how you must feel about drug addicts and such since your sister, and with your father and uncle’s history with the cartel, but I told him he was more than welcome to stay. We all have our demons, and I think it was very good of him to come clean as he did. If you have an issue with it though, I can talk to him.”

Bella sat very still, her mouth hanging open for a moment before she swallowed thickly. “He told you? About his heroin use?”

At this, Aunt Martha laughed, patting her hand before pulling away. “Oh no, dear! He doesn’t do heroin. He does cocaine and occasional morphine – very different stuff.” She said this as though he were an innocent child simply drawing on the wall with crayons, as though cocaine and morphine were somehow innocuous by comparison to heroin. “He intends to quit, however. I think it’s very brave of him to admit his faults like that.”

Bella thought for a moment, her thumb slipping under the sleeve of her hoodie to brush against her recent scars. She hadn’t known he was quitting – she wouldn’t have exploited his problems had she known he was trying to better himself, she knew better than that. She _was_ better than that.

Her resolve set, she stood from the table without a word and walked directly to her bedroom, Aunt Martha calling out to her about what she may want for lunch. She crossed to her bureau, lifting a small porcelain box from the top. It was painted with a rose on the top, an old gift from her father. She opened the lid and overturned the contents into her bandaged palm.

The silver razor blades glinted in the light pouring in from her bedroom window. She could see a flash of her eyes reflected back at her, and she closed her fingers gently around the small bits of metal, not wanting to cut herself on the sharpened edges. With prideful step, she marched to her trash can in the corner of her room and tossed the blades within, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding.

She heard another ‘pop!’ above her head through the floor, and smiled up at the ceiling. 

The uneasy feeling she had been carrying for the last month never returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two major takeaways from this chapter:
> 
> 1\. Although it isn't necessarily canon, I have Sherlock moved into 221B now because it never made sense to me that he hadn't already been there for some time when John moved in in Study in Pink. His stuff was already all over the place, including his kitchen chemistry set, his skull, the horned skull on the wall, etc. Not to mention Lestrade already knew where to find him when the pink woman's body showed up. There's no way he was *just* moving in when he met John. It's a major plot hole that has bothered me forever, and I fixed it.  
> 2\. Mia is a real person. My older sibling (they/them) Mia died in December 2019 of a heroin overdose. They were schizophrenic and depressed. They were my entire world, and since their death it has been very hard not to include them in my writing. While I don't have Mia's name as a tattoo, I do have a small music symbol with Mia's handwriting beneath it that I got years ago before Mia died. It is on the inside of my right wrist. In this moment, I am Bella.
> 
> Comments and kudos are like oxygen.


	3. Moonrise (Alternatively, Fantastical Delusions)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for this taking so long to put together - hopefully it is worth the read!

And so it went.

Bella and Sherlock developed what one might call an ‘acquaintanceship’ from the outsiders’ perspective, but Bella knew better. If she were asked, she would hope to term their relationship as that of friends, or as close as Sherlock could come to having one. They would pass by each other in the foyer, share mutual greetings, and an occasional smile. They would have tea with Aunt Martha almost every morning, and most nights Bella would stop by Sherlock’s flat to listen to him play his violin. She never tired of watching his fingers move delicately across the frets, observing the way he closed his eyes and moved gently to and fro in time with the music.

They never spoke of anything outside of that small bubble of communication. Anything to do with Bella’s dating life, Sherlock’s cases, her schooling, his experimentation – it was all left unsaid. After their one night of opening up to one another, they had decided upon the unspoken agreement that a conversation of that magnitude and emotion was likely to never happen again, and it was better not to dwell on it in the future. They would chat about musical tastes on occasion, what with Bella earning a doctorate in music, but beyond that, there was never much to say.

Despite his knowledge of her own musical inclinations, he never asked to hear her play the piano. She knew he could hear her practicing through the floor, because the sound of his violin was still clear as day on her end. There was no way he didn’t know of her talent – he just never asked. She chalked it up to him either being prideful or just being Sherlock, and didn’t let it bother her.

Time moved faster, it seemed, since their friendship began. It may have had something to do with the odd new schedule Bella was developing – wake up, breakfast and tea with Aunt Martha and Sherlock, school, come home, homework, dinner, spend an hour or so with Sherlock, go to bed. Something about spending time with Sherlock in the day seemed to make the clock disappear altogether, as Bella often lost track of time in his presence, absorbed in his very proximity.

She didn’t know yet whether it was a good thing or a bad thing.

However, in the last few weeks, Sherlock seemed to have disappeared from Bella’s life altogether. When she came into the kitchen in the mornings for breakfast, Aunt Martha claimed he was either still sleeping or had left the apartment early for a case. When she would start the climb up the stairs to his living room in the evenings, she would notice his door was shut – a rare thing to see, as Sherlock’s door was almost always wide open, even when he went to bed. She would even attempt to catch a glimpse of him in the foyer, but she would always just miss him, only catching a shock of dark hair and the tail-end of his long coat before the front door slammed behind him.

While she was starting to miss her new friend, Bella had to admit that the sudden shift in her regular routine had allowed for some much needed study time. With finals slowly creeping up on her, she had hardly noticed she had let her education start to slip, and had fallen immediately into an intense study regimen that left her without much time for rest or recreation. Her eyes had begun to get so tired she switched from her contact lenses to her glasses, and her sweaters seemed to grow a little larger day by day. She was sleeping no more than four hours a night, sometimes less, and when she wasn’t sleeping she was in constant motion, a whirlwind of anxious energy. She would spend some time in her small backyard garden, naming plant after plant, or she would be practicing her piano, sometimes for hours, until her fingers began to cramp from over-reaching difficult chords, a practice she often despised due to the diminutive reach of her petite hands. The combination of science and music swirled through her brain, so enmeshed that she would often hum her compositions to herself while in the garden, or she would surprise herself by muttering the scientific terms of different flowering Plantae while her fingers danced across the ivory keys.

Her dating life had also managed to take a small turn for the better, as she had begun to develop a new relationship just before finals had taken over her every waking moment. His name was Wade Addair, a 22-year-old Scotsman who was earning his bachelors in forensic sciences. They had been on one or two dates, nothing very formal, and he had been sending her small encouraging messages over text during her study lockdown. While he wasn’t an incredibly romantic fellow, Bella found herself smiling a little every time his name appeared on her phone, and fell deep in thought about the small chaste kiss he had given her the last time he had dropped her off at 221B. It was nice to have something to smile over since Josh had unceremoniously chucked her, tall detectives not included.

And somehow, despite herself, Bella couldn’t help but compare her mysterious companion to her budding romantic attachment. Where Sherlock was tall and lean, Wade was shorter, stockier, and had more muscle on his build. Where Sherlock’s hair was unruly and dark, Wade’s was cut short, the bright ginger locks often catching light in the sun. Where Sherlock was enigmatic, frustrating and sometimes downright rude, Wade was soft and gentle, always there with a kind word and a helping hand.

While the two men could not be more different, in spite of her better efforts, Bella couldn’t help being more drawn to one than the other, if her constant wondering of his avoidance of her was any indication.

She still listened for violin every night.

* * *

Finals had come to an end. After several long and arduous weeks, Christmas holiday had finally arrived, and Bella was more than ready to prop her feet up and do absolutely nothing for the next few weeks. While she never was a particularly idle person, everyone needed a break, and she was no exception. She also knew how much Aunt Martha and Wade worried over her – her appearance had somehow grown worse as of late, and she knew she was long overdue for a haircut, a large hot meal and about forty-eight-hours-worth of sleep.

While none of those things were imminent right this moment, a shower would definitely help.

She shut the front door behind her and sighed, leaning against the dark wood for a moment before dropping her bag to the floor and stretching languidly, taking time to curl and uncurl her sore fingers, and rolling her head about to ease the tension in her neck. She yawned widely, scratching the back of her head, and winced at the feel of how greasy her hair had gotten.

Shower. _Now_. 

She glanced briefly up the steps to the flat above. The door was, unsurprisingly, shut tight, despite the time only just having reached two in the afternoon. No music could be heard floating in the air, so Bella shrugged and trudged to the bathroom, stopping by her bedroom to pick up a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt on the way.

After stripping from her oversized sweater and jeans, Bella took a moment to check her reflection while the shower water started to steam. The square frames of her Ray-Ban glasses made her eyes look larger, and obscured her thick eyebrows (though about that she didn’t complain). Her cheekbones had begun to grown prominent, looking like shelves beneath the purpling bags under her eyes, and her mind quickly flashed to another set of high, sharp cheekbones – she shoved that thought away brusquely. Moving further down, she examined the dull color her skin had started to turn, and the way her collarbones cast shadows around the column of her throat, her skin shifting subtly as she swallowed once. She couldn’t remember ever having been so thin from working – hopefully next semester would be easier, and take less of a physical toll.

With aching, gentle hands, she ran her palms up over her bare hips and waist, not liking the way she could just feel the jut of her ribcage underneath her fingertips. She bit her lip as her hands moved ever slower to her breasts, her thumbs gently brushing both her nipples. She sighed under the brief touch, her sensitivity making her shiver slightly. She hastily crossed her arms over her chest as her hands clutched her shoulders, feeling the telltale flush of arousal turn her cheeks pink. While she could brush it off as heat from the shower, the roiling of acid in her stomach and the dampness growing between her legs spoke of a _very_ different sort of heat. Her skin tingled with the need to be touched – touched by someone else’s hands.

With a deep, exhausted sigh, she dropped her arms to her sides, removed her glasses, and stepped into the shower, immediately relaxing under the soothing streams of hot water. Her tense shoulders began to drop from their place by her ears, and she closed her eyes in reverence as the water sluiced over her red-brown hair and tired face.

She took great care in washing her hair thoroughly. The scent of her honey and oat shampoo and conditioner wafted around her like the sweet fumes of a bakery, a smell that always made her feel at ease and safe. She took her time rinsing both the hair products out, scratching at her scalp delicately with her fingernails. A good, long shower truly was always able to work wonders on her after a tiring day, and with this day having extended for weeks on end… well, it wasn’t her fault if she hadn’t tended to herself as much as she should have.

She reached for her soap bar as the remnants of conditioner slithered down the drain, and at the first touch of her hands to her waist, the same tingling sensations crept their way back under her skin, making her shudder slightly, her earlier arousal spiking again.

Bella was not a virgin – hadn’t been for some time, in fact. Not one to jump into actions without precaution, she had made a pact with herself to stay virginal until she was at least eighteen. She had no problem with the idea of sex – she just wanted to be sure that she was of sound mind when the time came around. She had hardly been eighteen for more than an hour by the time she gave herself away, however. His name was Steven Lee, a teaching assistant at the University of Florida, where Bella had just earned her bachelor degrees. They had flirted on and off for the better part of the semester, despite the five year age gap between them, and their first date had been just a week shy of Bella’s birthday. They were gentle with one another, and had discussed at great length their views on sexual relationships. And although Bella had made it perfectly clear that she was waiting until she knew she was ready, she had surprised herself most of all when she had found herself in Steven’s naked lap just after 1 am on the day she turned eighteen, her first-ever orgasm shattering her psyche into a million pieces as Steven thrust into her from below. Their relationship hadn’t lasted much longer after that, as Bella’s mother’s death caused her to move to London with Aunt Martha no more than two weeks later.

In the two years since then, she could count on one hand the men she had slept with – they would date for a few weeks or so, sometimes even lasting months, before they would feel inadequate by comparison to Bella’s intellect, and move on. Josh had been the longest, and by far her most compatible partner yet. While he was sweet and tentative in public atmospheres, behind locked doors he had been insatiable, sometimes even intense or desperate, his hands rough and his movements urgent. And despite Bella’s more romantic inclinations, she had to admit it had turned her on when she could get Josh riled up that way.

While thinking along this vein, Bella’s hand brushed against her hardening nipple without thought, and she gasped, her back finding the shower wall behind her easily. It had been some time since she had been touched intimately – not even her own fingers had gravitated towards her erogenous zones in the last few months since Josh had dumped her and finals had shadowed her every move. The sudden thought of allowing herself to drift on a cloud of pure carnal pleasure was too appealing to ignore… so she stopped trying to block it out.

Plopping the soap back onto the ledge, she rested her head back against the blue tiles of the shower wall, closed her eyes, and let her hand drift downward. As she found her clit and began to stroke gently, she allowed her mind to drift to thoughts of Wade. She hummed a little in pleasure as visions of his smile flashed across her subconscious. She thought of what he would be like in the bedroom – likely gentle, as he was such a calm and tender person. It had been some time since she had been with someone so sweet. She imagined him kissing her neck and collar reverently, his breath ghosting over her now-rigid nipples, his glasz eyes peeking up at her from under thick lashes and brows, glinting cheekily…

_Wait_. No. Wade’s eyes were emerald. She mentally shook off the odd moment, blaming it on exhaustion and continued in her fantasy, her fingertips rubbing back and forth over her heated flesh with renewed fervor.

She imagined Wade drifting lower, pressing kisses into her slightly rounded stomach, gently biting here and sucking there, creating marks that would likely leave a lasting map down her body for days. She pictured combing a hand through his hair and could almost feel his thick, dark curls wrapped around her fingers as his own long, spidery digits entered her wet center slowly –

_FUCK._

In a whirlwind of sudden sensation, Bella’s orgasm overcame her quickly and without warning, her breath halting as shockwave after shockwave of pleasure made her nearly double over.

Visions of a flushed and smirking Sherlock Holmes painted the inside of her eyelids briefly before fading into the dark, leaving Bella momentarily stunned.

“Bella! Hello?!”

The _snick_ of the door opening made Bella freeze where she was, and she began to notice that the hot water was starting to turn lukewarm. The voice she had heard was urgent, impatient… and decidedly male.

“ _Sherlock_?” 

A small huff came from the other side of the shower curtain, and Bella shut the water off, poking her head around the fabric of the curtain in an effort to keep the rest of her naked body concealed.

There, in the middle of her bathroom, dressed in his usual pressed shirt, slacks and dressing gown, was none other than her unfriendly neighborhood consulting detective. He had one hand still on the doorknob, the other resting on his hip, his pinky tapping impatiently. His expression was unreadable, with no other emotion to show besides one sardonically raised eyebrow, and in the steam swirling around the small room, his tousled curls were starting to frizz. He appeared to be neither regretful nor reticent of his current predicament, and simply stood there, barefoot, staring at an open-mouthed Bella for what felt like an inordinately long time.

Bella swallowed once, and managed to get her brain to come up with two words for the man standing before her: “Get out!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You weren’t answering me when I was calling you – I need you for something.”

“Okay, and you couldn’t have waited until I _wasn’t naked?!_ ” Bella half-shrieked, ducking completely behind the curtain again, running her hands over her wet hair. She began to shiver from the cold air now wafting into the bathroom, but she refused to move an inch until the bastard left.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock drawled, and Bella could practically _feel_ the patronization of his words. “We’re naked from the moment we’re born until the day we die – it’s a constant state of being. The clothes we put on don’t change that fact that underneath we’re still just skin, sinew and bone. Nudity is only programmed in our minds to be inde-“

“SHERLOCK!” Bella thundered, feeling the heat rising past her cheeks and turning her vision red. “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY BATHROOM!”

It was then that Aunt Martha, saintly Martha Louise Hudson, came barreling through the hallway towards the bathroom, back from her mid-day shopping trip.

“Sherlock Holmes!” Bella heard her screech from the hall, and fought back the urge to laugh as she heard a dull ‘ _bonk!’_ on the other side of the shower curtain – Aunt Martha had no doubt pulled out her favorite weapon, a rolled-up magazine, and was batting Sherlock with it. “How indecent of you, to walk into a ladies bathroom unannounced _and_ unwelcomed! You can wait for Bella in her room, you fiendish little pervert!”

Bella bit her lip to hold back a loud cackle as the door slammed and she heard Sherlock fighting back against her aunt through the walls, a slew of names going back and forth between the two.

Ten minutes later, Bella had managed to dry off, comb out her hair, and slip into her sweats and T-shirt. She still had to face her ‘peeping Tom’ neighbor, and was trying (and failing) to motivate herself to walk out of the bathroom.

“You’re being ridiculous,” she muttered to herself in the mirror, her knuckles beginning to match the white porcelain of the sink in their rigid grip. “Likely he had been calling while you were in the heat of the moment, and your subconscious substituted him in. That has to be the reason.” She shook her head harshly like she was clearing an Etch-a-Sketch, and glared at her reflection, jabbing a finger at the glass that was slowly un-fogging. “You were _not_ masturbating to Sherlock Holmes!”

With a deep breath in, Bella backed away from the mirror and swung the door open, marching her way down the hall to her bedroom. As soon as she saw him sitting on her bed, waiting patiently, she deflated, her shoulders curving in, shrinking her already small stature. So much for her supposed confidence.

“Finally,” he huffed, uncrossing his legs and leaning back on the heels of his hands, rolling his head to face her. “I may have to send your aunt a hospital bill – the woman is _deadly_ with a stapled sheaf of papers.”

Bella snickered, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe. She was still so dazed from her moment in the shower that she feared going near him would make him suddenly realize what she had been doing just before his abrupt entrance. “It’s her weapon of choice against – how did she put it? Fiendish little perverts?” She smirked as a blush crept its way across his face. “I think it’s a little early in our relationship to be walking in on me _naked._ Don’t you agree?”

Sherlock ran a hand through his curls, coughing once to clear his throat. “Umm… right. Well, I suppose I should apologize for my intrusion. It wasn’t exactly gentlemanly and I am sorry.”

With a sigh, Bella shifted back to her feet, moving cautiously closer to the tall man sitting on her duvet, the tips of his fingers fiddling with the loose threads there. She couldn’t help but see him as impossibly younger in the moment, his face flushed and his eyes wide as they focused on the movements of his hands.

“Is that _all_ you want to apologize for, Sherlock?” she mused, and his eyes flicked up to meet hers, an unspoken question gathering behind his irises. They were almost hazel today. “You ditched me for weeks. I thought we were becoming friends and then you just disappeared from my life. What’s up with that?”

He shrugged his thin shoulders, his dressing gown (gold today) sliding a little off of one side. “You were getting ready for your exams – far be it for me to get in the way of a studying doctorate student.”

After a moment of tense thought processing, Bella couldn’t help the laugh that erupted from low in her belly, and the look on Sherlock’s face made it clear that she looked positively insane. She tried a few times to take a deep, calming breath, and when she managed to reduce her guffaws to small chuckles, she sat down beside the detective, wiping at her eyes under the glasses.

“That’s it? Really? You ignored me – no, you _actively avoided_ me for the better part of a month, didn’t speak to me, barely even breathed the same air as me for all that time, just because you were trying to give me space to study?” She laughed once more, as hearing the words leaving her mouth was just as funny as bringing them together in her mind. “Sherlock, that’s not how you handle situations like that. You could always _ask_ me if I need space, or at least let me know we’re still okay! I spent all this time thinking you were mad at me!”

“Mad at you? For what?”

“I don’t know!” Bella tucked a lock of hair over her ear and readjusted her glasses over her nose as she looked Sherlock right in the eye. “But that’s the sort of thing people think about when someone they were close to stops speaking to them.”

He snorted. “Sensitivity. Yet another weakness in human nature.”

“What does that make you, a robot?”

“High-functioning sociopath.”

Bella chuckled once under her breath, and smiled when Sherlock huffed out a small laugh as well. She admired the way even his softest smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, making him look more carefree than she’d ever seen him. He didn’t show his teeth when his lips turned up, but the expression was genuine, something she was fortunate enough to recognize.

_GOD, Bella,_ she chastised herself, turning her eyes away from the man. _This is Sherlock – stop fantasizing! It will only lead to more shower incidents._

“You said – you said you had something you needed my help with, right?” Bella choked out, swallowing the sudden lump that appeared at the base of her tongue.

She felt Sherlock move beside her, reaching into the pocket of his dressing gown and pulling out a few folded sheets of paper. He undid the folds and presented the papers to her triumphantly.

It was sheet music. More specifically, piano sheet music. The title at the top read _Moonrise_ , and Bella recognized the name of contemporary composer Brian Crain. The piece looked fairly simplistic, and as she read through the notes she found herself humming along to the tune.

“This is a lovely piece,” she mused, flipping through the pages. “A little easier, but nice. Are you trying to learn piano or something?”

Sherlock groaned. “And here I thought I wouldn’t need to be too obvious.” He motioned to the floor, and Bella noticed the violin case beside his bare feet. “The piece is a duet for piano and cello, and due to the immense boredom that comes with not currently having a case, I’ve been transposing the cello part to violin. It doesn’t quite work without the piano as a guide, however.”

Without another word, he lifted the violin case and strode out of the room, a determined pace to his steps. Bella watched him go, the sheet music still in her hands, trying to process what her next move was supposed to be.

When she heard the plucking of strings from the sitting room, it clicked.

She shuffled out of her bedroom down the hall to the main living space, an oddly decorated but homey den. The olive green couch stood out against the beige carpeting and light grey paint on the walls, while a myriad of framed photographs and mementos lined the perimeter of the room in every color and material frame from simple black plastic to sponge-painted maple wood. Bella’s small piano sat in the corner by the window, where the natural light would often hit her music the best without her having to squint against the fluorescent bulbs of the lamps in the room.

Sherlock sat perched on the edge of the matching armchair across from the sofa, his violin case opened on the coffee table in front of him while the instrument was held in front of his chest like a guitar, his fingertips gently plucking at the strings to get them in tune. His tongue peeked between his lips in concentration, and his brows were furrowed as he tightened and loosened the bolts at the top of the neck.

Bella couldn’t help but think that he looked so out of place here, in her life, in her home. While he was all angles and perfect lines, the living room was cozy curves and soft edges, just as she herself was. Somehow, though, despite the incongruities of his placement here, he seemed to fit almost like a puzzle piece Bella didn’t know she needed to complete the picture. While he wasn’t a perfect fit, he finished the design in a way that felt natural.

“That’s your family.”

Bella shook her head abruptly, coming out of her momentary daze. _Damn, I_ really _need to stop with these wandering thought processes,_ she thought to herself, and put her attention back on her guest. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

Sherlock smirked, pointing with his bow to a frame just over Bella’s left shoulder. “That photo, behind you. That’s your family.”

Bella knew the photo well without even turning around. It was one of those posed family group shots, something she detested but that her father had always insisted upon every year ‘for posterity’. She looked over her shoulder at the smiling faces of her parents, her mother’s wide eyes and full mouth so similar to her own, and at the eager, childlike grins of both herself and Mia. She couldn’t stare too long at the photo without getting misty-eyed, so she turned her head back to face a less emotional sight – Sherlock staring at her pointedly.

“I can’t give you any points for deduction there,” Bella chuckled, taking the few steps to the piano and settling down on the bench. “There’s no way you didn’t recognize me. And you’ve already met my father.”

He rolled his eyes as he stood to move behind Bella, violin and bow at the ready in his grasp. “I wasn’t trying to make a deduction, I was attempting to start…” He paused momentarily, searching for the word. “Conversation?”

Bella snorted as her fingers danced up and down the scales once with a fluidity so natural it felt like breathing. She found middle C and pressed it, the single note reverberating for a moment between them before she responded. “And here I thought you were a born raconteur. Never thought you would shut up.”

While he didn’t say anything else or even laugh, Bella could feel his small smile like a sunbeam on the back of her neck.

“So,” she declared, adjusting her posture to sit upright. She shifted the pages of the music, making sure they all faced her. “Did you just need a starting note, or a tuning note?”

“I need you to play, so I can come in.”

Bella craned her neck to look at him. He hovered behind her shoulder, violin poised beneath his chin, the muscles in his left arm twitching from the effort of holding still and upright. His eyebrow was lifted in an expectant expression, as if waiting for a command. When she still didn’t move or speak, Sherlock sighed.

“I didn’t just come down here to have you listen to me this time. I said I needed your help – now play.”

Bella didn’t wait to be told a second time, and quickly rushed to hit the first few notes on the piano, her suddenly shaking hands clumsily tripping about the keys, completely missing every note. She lifted her hands and closed her eyes, letting out the breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding.

Sherlock’s exasperated sigh behind her triggered her eyes to snap open again, and with renewed energy and focus, she laid her fingertips upon the starting keys and brought the music to life.

Bella had played piano since she was five, when her father had insisted she take up a hobby to expend the endless energy she seemed to have stored up in her tiny hyper body. Unlike the other endeavors she had given herself over to in her lifetime, piano did not come to her easily at all. In fact, it was the only thing she could remember in her educational history that she really had to struggle to understand. The theory behind the notes on the page, the combination of foot pedals and chords and melodic notes – it all had seemed like gibberish at the time she had started to learn. She had nearly quit at age seven after two years with a private instructor yielded very little practical result.

It wasn’t until her mother had discussed a piece she wanted to dance to that Bella renewed her interest in the instrument, making it her mission to learn the song so she could play it for her mom. Upon second attempts, Bella found that the obstacle keeping her from enjoying the piano had been herself all along – she was simply trying too hard to understand it on a deeper level, as she had with everything else in her life. In less than three weeks, Bella had learned the song and proudly played it for her parents and sister, eagerly awaiting the praise and thanks for Bella’s learning the piece to help her mother. It was then she found out that her mother had only made the comment to get Bella to start trying again, thinking it would encourage her youngest daughter to work harder if she thought it would be helpful to others.

Since those early days, Bella had practiced for at least an hour every day, always trying to find new pieces to dive into, finding an intense thrill in working her way through a more difficult piece bit by bit until she had it down.

This piece, however, this moving, lyrical piece that Sherlock unceremoniously handed to her, sounded rather plain by comparison to the things she had played in recent years. It sounded like the music one might hear while watching a rain shower outside – simple and clean, higher notes floating dreamlike through the air of the living room.

It was almost a shock when Sherlock came in after a few moments, the thrumming, silken sound of the violin twisting its way between the pitter-patter of the ivory keys, and Bella allowed herself to get lost in the swirl of the music, every note lifting her higher and higher.

In her peripherals she saw Sherlock move slightly closer to her side, and chanced a quick glance away from the music, admiring the flit of his fingers across the neck of the wooden instrument under his chin, the delicate way his eyelashes fanned out across the circles under his closed eyes – he hadn’t been sleeping again. She bit her lip and turned back to the pages in front of her, half-dazed in the haze of notes and crescendos.

After some time, the song drifted to a soft finish, with Bella playing the final notes with a quick flourish. The lingering music hung in the air around them while Sherlock lowered his violin and Bella moved back her hands from the keys, neither of them daring to break the sudden quiet.

The jarring clapping from the doorway made them both jump minutely, and Bella whirled about to see her aunt clapping jovially, a broad smile across her face. Behind her stood a tall, sharply-dressed man, his hands slowly clapping close to his chest, an umbrella dangling from one wrist. He had a large, angular nose and a set to his eyebrows that looked like he was judging anything within his line of vision. His eyes never left Bella, and she sensed a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach staring up into them. She recognized the gentleman as one of Sherlock’s visitors, the one whose departure was always preceded by an expletive from Sherlock or a shattering sound.

“Oh, how lovely!” Aunt Martha twittered, her hands aflutter as she skipped into the room. “I was wondering when you would come down here to listen to my Bella play, Sherlock! Much better to listen from here than the top of the stairs.”

Bella’s gaze shot right to Sherlock, who was starting to turn a shade so red he might as well have been replaced with a ripe tomato. So he _had_ been interested in her playing.

“Very excellent playing, brother mine,” the tall man uttered from the doorway, the umbrella now perched on the ground, his large hand wrapped around the cane handle. “I don’t remember the last time you played a duet. At least your partner is… competent.”

Bella didn’t know whether to thank him for the half-compliment or roll her eyes at his condescending tone.

Sherlock cleared his throat, his embarrassment abated by the agitation that was now starting to twist his features. “Bella, Mrs. Hudson,” he sneered, his eyes never leaving the other man. “Allow me to introduce my elder brother, Mycroft.”

_Mycroft_. Yet another strange and mysterious name that set Bella’s teeth on edge. The name suited him, though – it sounded sharp and calculating, while giving off an air of haughtiness that Bella could read on the man as easily as if the word were emblazoned on his lapel. She glanced back and forth between the brothers for just a moment, and decided each had a name suited to them. While Mycroft sounded posh and analytical, Sherlock was a name fraught with curiosity and something akin to whimsy, which rolled off the younger Holmes in waves, even as he glared across the room.

She stood after her aunt stepped forward to shake Mycroft’s hand, coming over to the elder Holmes brother. She extended a hand out, setting her jaw as she tilted her head back to look him in the eyes. Jesus, were all Holmes men so _tall_?

“Arabella Hudson,” she offered, keeping her tone casual so as not to give away her sudden uneasiness in his presence. Mycroft gingerly took her small hand in his, and Bella couldn’t help but notice that while his hands were relatively large, they were not as gracefully slender as his brother’s, nor were the fingers as long. He turned her hand in his grip, her palm facing down, and slowly started to lift her knuckles to his mouth. A ripple of uneasiness flooded Bella’s bloodstream at the mere thought of this strange man kissing her hand.

A firm tug in the opposite direction ripped Bella’s hand and gaze from Mycroft’s, and she was shocked to find her wrist gripped vice-like in Sherlock’s strong hold, his eyes narrowed at his brother. His fingers were pressed into her pulse-point, and Bella prayed to whatever higher powers that were listening that Sherlock didn’t feel the sudden hitch in her pulse as his thumb grazed her inner wrist gently, like a caress.

“Sorry,” he muttered, slowly bringing their joined appendages down between them again, releasing Bella’s wrist after another small sweep of his thumb. “I just don’t think anybody should have to endure the touch of a _snake_ for longer than necessary.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, straightening his posture. “If you’re still upset about what happened two weeks ago with the Rialdo case –“

“There was _clearly_ a person from the government involved and _you_ were looking to keep it hush-hush!”

“Sherlock, do _lower_ your voice –“

“Oh come on, you act like nobody knows that the government is already corrupt enough as it is, but fraudulent money laundering should not be treated with nothing more than a slap on the wrist –“

“I’ll have you know the gentleman has been dealt with in a manner befitting a British government official –“

“So what, treated to an ice cream and a scolding?”

“OKAY,” Bella interrupted, stepping between the two as a buffer. “Inside voices please, gentlemen. Jesus, you two bicker like children.”

Mycroft let out a huff while Sherlock crossed his arms with a pout, looking every bit like a bickering, petulant child. Bella swallowed the laugh that threatened to break out of her diaphragm.

“Mr. Holmes,” she said, turning to the older man, “is there something you came here for?”

Mycroft straightened his shoulders again, leaning on his umbrella. “Actually, yes. I need my dear brother for another case – a young child was found dead in the garden of his uncle, a rather popular barrister. No blood, no wounds – nothing to associate the death with a murder, but police suspect the uncle anyhow.”

“A body?” Sherlock suddenly perked up, his eyes sparkling with life. “At Barts?”

“Molly Hooper already has it on a slab, waiting for you.”

The way Sherlock leapt into the air with joy made Bella a little queasy. The casual, almost enjoyable manner in which these two discussed a dead body, especially that of a child, was unnerving to say the least. She crossed her arms and stepped aside as Sherlock zoomed around the small den like a whirligig, snatching his violin and bow and slamming them back into the case. He was nearly past his brother and out the door when he paused, his midair foot slowly dropping back down. He turned to Bella, his eyes beseeching.

“Come with me,” he stated, his voice breathless with excitement.

“What?” Bella and Mycroft both asked together in a matching tone of disbelief.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft admonished, “I’m asking you to come look at a _body_. I hardly think that a young botanist like Miss Hudson would be interested in anything other than plants.”

Bella didn’t question how Mycroft would have known such a thing after just having met her – knowing Sherlock’s gift for deduction, she was certain the older man knew her social security number by now simply by the T-shirt she had chosen at random to wear.

“She has a keen interest in anatomy and you said the child was found in the garden. Maybe there is something we might overlook that she can discern.” Sherlock stepped a little closer, his eyes never leaving Bella’s. His intense stare had gone the color of a stormy sky, the centers deep blue while gray circled the lines of his irises like rainclouds. “I could use your help. Come with me.”

Bella couldn’t say what it was that made her nod, but in five minutes she had traded her soft sweatpants for a pair of jeans and a warm jacket, and she followed the two older men out of 221B, her aunt blathering on with protestation after protestation.

Sherlock refused to ride in his brother’s private car, instead hailing a cab in seconds flat. He held the door open for Bella with a sweep of his arm, and as they settled in the backseat, Sherlock’s mobile phone already in his hand typing away, Bella couldn’t help but wonder what adventure she had unknowingly involved herself in.

* * *

In all the times that Bella had passed St. Bartholomew’s Hospital in the last two and a half years, it never ceased to amaze her. The face of the white stone building always looked so out of place within the contemporary city, a Victorian beacon in an updated world. She stood staring up at the top windows from the street below, adjusting her glasses up her nose to see all the way above her. She wondered how different it would be to stand from the opposite side, looking down…

“Come along, Miss Hudson.”

She was jostled from her marveling by the elder Holmes, who tapped at the back of her leg with the point of his umbrella. Rolling her eyes, Bella trotted up the stairs after Sherlock, who had already whisked his way through the front door, likely halfway to the morgue by now.

As the door shut behind them, Bella was stunned to find that the interior of the building was vastly incongruous to the outside façade. Glass windows lined the walkways on each floor, while the opaque roof let in an abundance of natural light. The white walls and simple furnishings gave the place a clean and modern feel, while the loud voices shouting of outdated filing systems and the hustle of the sick and injured spoke otherwise.

She kept pace with Mycroft, having lost Sherlock in the fray, her hands tucked in the pockets of her jacket as they hurried along. A hospital staff member nearly stopped them as they started to move toward a restricted area, but one look from Mycroft had the young man nearly cowering away, looking like a dog with his tail between his legs.

By the time they reached the elevators to the morgue, it appeared Sherlock had already gone down. Bella pressed the button for the next one, and was unfortunate enough to hear Mycroft take a deep breath behind her, clearly about to speak. She bit her lip to keep from huffing out an annoyed sigh.

“So,” he drawled, inspecting his fingernails, “who are you, Miss Hudson?”

Bella turned to the man, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. “What do you mean by that, Mr. Holmes?”

He put the full force of his hard gaze on Bella, and she could feel the weight of his superiority weighing her down. She squared her shoulders and made an effort to stand her ground, her gaze never wavering.

As Mycroft began to speak, his voice took on that same, robotic edge that Bella recognized as ‘Sherlock’s Deduction Tone’. It was clear now that Sherlock had learned it from somewhere else. “A young, American woman. A highly intelligent one, at that. No more than twenty, studying music and plant biology. Newly engaged in a relationship, just finishing her first term of doctoral studies. Practically an orphan, no biological family that you still speak to. Riddled constantly with guilt over the deaths of your mother and sister, to the point that you cause yourself physical harm to numb the mental anguish that the misplaced blame puts you through. A secret smoker, due to stress. Works part-time as a baker at the small sweet shop down the road from 221B, when you have the time. A dog lover, but unable to have one of your own due to allergies. A lover of books, film, and the theatre.” By the time Mycroft had finished his little show, the bell for the next lift _ding!-_ ed, and Bella slid between the opening doors, the taller man close behind her. Mycroft pressed the button for the basement, where the morgue was located, and the doors came back together again.

“Do I want to know how you knew all of that?” Bella asked, watching the numbers decrease as the elevator shifted downward.

“I would think all of it is fairly obvious,” Mycroft answered, once again inspecting his nails. “However, I do want to know something of you.”

“Seems as though you know every detail about me already,” Bella snapped, glowering up at the man with an expression she hoped instilled fear.

He merely smirked, leaning closer to her face. “I do,” he huffed, and Bella caught a small whiff of his breath – it smelled acrid, like stale milk. “What I don’t know is why a girl as mundane and unexceptional as you, would entice my brother to the point of forming a _friendship_.” He spat the word as though it were laden with poison on his tongue, his lips curling back into a sneer. “So tell me – what is it about you that has blinded my brother into sentimentality?”

Bella took a step back, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She pressed her fingernails into her palms to keep from throwing a punch. “I honestly don’t know. But your brother is a grown-up – he can make his own decisions. If my being a part of his life is such an issue, talk to him about it yourself.”

At that moment, the bell above them rang out cheerily, and the doors slid open to reveal the hallway to the morgue. Bella rushed to take a step out of it, but felt a firm, cold grip on her upper arm.

“Just remember, Miss Hudson,” Mycroft whispered, his voice dangerously close to her ear. “My brother believes there is no need for sentiment. Eventually, he will tire of whatever it is between you. Best get out now, before you hurt yourself.”

Without turning back, Bella ripped her arm out from the grip of the older Holmes and nearly jogged down the hall – the more distance she was able to put between herself and Mycroft, the better she could breathe.

The door to the morgue was propped open, and Bella could hear Sherlock inside rambling on in his ‘deduction tone’. The sound of his voice brought a sense of calm to her mind, and she tried not to allow herself to wonder why that was.

At least – she tried.

Why _did_ Sherlock want her around? He had said himself multiple times that he wasn’t interested in friendships or sentimentality – that it was a weakness he refused to have. Bella considered herself a highly emotional person, one who built friendships and relationships without much thought or contemplation. She just opened herself up to people. Sherlock didn’t do that; he was very much a closed book, so closed one would think he was padlocked.

So then why had he allowed her to have the key to unlocking him, even if all he had allowed her to read were the first few pages?

It wasn’t neighborly behavior – a man like Sherlock didn’t do ‘neighborly’ things. Was it some need to fill the void his drug withdrawal had left him, then? Was it some misplaced sense of guilt over hurting her the night they met on the roof?

The longer Bella stood, staring at her own hands, contemplating just outside the doorway to the morgue, the further down the rabbit hole of negative thought she fell. When she had finally snapped herself out of her stupor (thanks to a rather brusque shove in the side from Mycroft, who had brushed her aside in order to enter the room), she came to the conclusion that Sherlock was merely humoring her. That she had become a nuisance in his life that he, for some reason or another, wasn’t sending away. She meant nothing to him – she was no more than his landlady’s niece, and it would always be like that. They weren’t _friends_ , no matter how much she may have thought they were. She was no more than a thorn in his side.

“Oi. You alright, love?”

Bella jumped slightly as a hand came down lightly on her shoulder, and she found herself faced with an older, albeit handsome man with dark eyes and a shock of silver hair. His face was contorted into a worried expression, one eyebrow lifted in question. It took a moment for Bella to register that she was finally meeting Detective Inspector Lestrade, another one of the visitors that always came and went through Sherlock’s front door. She had never been formally introduced to him, but he had nodded at her once on his way to get Sherlock while she had been dusting the picture frames in the main foyer at 221B.

“Umm,” she stammered, shaking her head slightly as she recovered herself. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

Lestrade didn’t look totally convinced. “You sure? You look a little pale – are you lost or somethin’?”

“Lestrade,” Bella heard Sherlock call from the next room. “Please stop trying to be helpful and bring Miss Hudson in here, before you try to flirt and scare her off.”

Bella watched as Lestrade’s cheeks turned a very fetching shade of pink, and he gave her a small, apologetic smile. Bella patted him once on the shoulder. “Very nice to meet you, Detective Inspector.”

“Miss Hudson,” Lestrade muttered as he swept his arm out to usher her into the room.

In contrast to the bright whites and glass of the main hospital, the morgue was all silver. The body storage cabinets along the walls were filed in rows, and the ones currently holding corpses had a neatly written tag along the front. Bella felt a small shiver run up her spine as she walked further into the brightly lit room, memories of having to identify two family members in a morgue flashing through her mind unbidden. It only made the guilty feelings she had developed about Sherlock weigh her down further. Mycroft’s patronizing stare from across the room didn’t alleviate anything, either.

Sherlock stood at the autopsy slab with a young woman, though Bella didn’t have to see her face to know who she was – the bright pink hair ribbon pulling back her mousy brown locks spoke volumes. This was the third most frequent of Sherlock’s visitors, the shy, petite woman who always wore brightly colored sweaters and looked up at Sherlock’s flat with a hopeful expression before climbing the stairs.

Apparently, all of the people Sherlock acquainted himself with, aside from herself and Aunt Martha, were people he worked with – another reason to further the belief that he didn’t have friendships. Bella swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Bella, come here a moment please,” Sherlock demanded as he beckoned to her over his shoulder with a rubber-gloved hand. He didn’t turn to look at her, his focus solely on the body before him.

Bella tentatively took a few steps forward, intending to put herself right at Sherlock’s side, when she heard a small cough from the corner of the room. When she glanced up, Mycroft lifted a challenging eyebrow, and Bella planted her gaze back to the ground. She side-stepped her originally planned position and instead moved to the other side of the slab, putting some distance between herself and Sherlock rather than being in his immediate proximity.

She could feel Sherlock’s eyes on her for a fleeting moment, but turned her attention to the woman across from her, whose gaze was firmly locked on Sherlock. “Hi, I’m Bella Hudson. I’ve seen you a few times at Baker Street.”

The young woman did a brief double take, as though taking her eyes away from Sherlock’s face was a hardship, then nodded in Bella’s direction, a tiny smile pushing up one side of her thin mouth. “Molly Hooper. It’s nice to finally meet you – though I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“Indeed,” came Mycroft’s drawl from his occupied corner, and Bella winced at the sound of the tip of his umbrella hitting the ground with impatience. “So are we going to continue with the introductory pleasantries or are we going to examine this body?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and Bella got the feeling that the ‘ _fuck off’_ no doubt lying on his tongue didn’t need to be said aloud. “Would you please shut up and let me do this _my_ way, brother dear?” Sherlock sneered at his elder brother. “Or would prefer to get your own hands dirty?”

Bella ignored the bickering and turned her attention to the body below her line of vision. It took quite a bit of effort not to weep at the sight of the dead child before her, looking no older than eight or nine. His small eyes were shut, and his mouth was slightly opened, almost as though he were breathing deeply in his sleep. His shaggy mop of blond hair made Bella pause momentarily to collect herself, trying not to remember the way her mother’s hair had looked against the shining metal of the slab she’d been laid upon. She redirected her entire focus, shoving all outside thoughts away as she examined what she could of the young boy.

A pair of latex gloves were shoved under her nose then, and Bella looked up to see Molly’s chagrined smile. “You’re welcome to take a closer look, if you want. I know that’s why Sherlock brought you in. Don’t worry – he’ll stop dealing with Mycroft in a moment.”

Bella turned back to the brothers only to find them arguing again, Sherlock gesturing wildly while Mycroft stood poised as a statue, his umbrella point situated between his front-facing feet. Lestrade stood between them, looking for all the world like he wanted to punch them both square in the nose.

With a small chuckle and a thankful smile, Bella took the gloves and snapped them on, her fingers tentative as she began to examine the boy more closely.

It was not the first time she had touched a cadaver. While she had always been more interested in plants and flowers, human anatomy had been a passion of hers since her beginnings as a science student. She had taken a few courses on the subject, one of which had included the decomposition stages of human beings. Granted, the bodies in those classes had been of older people, usually those who had died under ordinary circumstances and had offered their bodies to science prior to death, but with a few deep breaths, Bella simply put herself back in the science classroom, and began to work.

She prodded her fingers up and down the boy’s arm as she turned back to Molly. “What was the cause of death?”

“Poison,” Molly offered, opening up the folder under her arm. “His uncle said there was some deadly nightshade growing in the garden as a weed. Poor boy must have thought it was just a regular berry.”

Bella nodded. Having taken a class on poisonous plants, she could imagine how a child would see the dark berry as a harmless fruit. She lifted the boy’s hand and turned it over to look under his fingernails – the dark spots of berry juices coating his fingertips corroborated the story well enough. The slightly darker blue tinge to his tongue was more evidence to the obvious.

“If you know he was poisoned, why call Sherlock in then? Surely this is very cut and dry.”

She was surprised by the sudden proximity of said detective by her side, a small magnifier in his hand as he inspected the fingertips of the small hand in Bella’s gentle grip. She shifted imperceptibly away, putting more space between them. If Sherlock noticed, he said nothing.

“I was only called in to prove the story was true. High profile cases like this, they like to dot the I’s and cross the T’s before they move forward with any prosecutions, or lack thereof.” Sherlock closed the magnifier and looked directly at Bella then, his towering stature suddenly making her feel much smaller than it ever had before. Sherlock was in his element now, a way Bella had never seen him. It was intimidating while being incredibly appealing. “Any thoughts?”

Bella raised an eyebrow. “From me?”

“I brought you here for a reason, you know,” he sighed exasperatedly. “Any insight you might be able to offer? Anything we may have missed? Even the smallest detail can be overlooked by the keenest of eyes.”

Molly snorted, while Lestrade outright guffawed – a strange sound to be hearing in a room full of the dead. “You? Miss a detail? C’mon, Sherlock, we all know you don’t miss a thing! Even the most random fact or tiniest piece of dust doesn’t get by you.”

Sherlock sniffed once, and turned to face the DI. “You know, it was Bella that helped me solve the catering case a few weeks back.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow in surprise. Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Simply suggesting that you call the catering company rather than conduct an experiment is hardly considered ‘helping’.”

Bella glared at the man, her teeth setting in a grimace behind her closed lips. She silently prayed that he would trip over his own umbrella one of these days.

Sherlock sounded just as agitated at his brother. “But had she not suggested it, I would have gone through that entire experiment and then some. I might have lost myself in the minute calculations and that innocent man might be in jail.” He turned to Bella again, his expression gentler now. “It likely won’t offer much, but just see what you can find.”

Bella wished desperately that he wouldn’t look at her with that soft half-smile and the kind glint in his eyes. It would be even more difficult to discontinue their friendship if he kept giving her that expression.

She let out a breath and turned back to the young boy’s body, trying her best to pull all of her focus and brain power to the task at hand. She gently laid his fruit-stained hand back on the table, and focused her attention on his mouth. The dark tinge just inside his bottom lip was telling, but something in Bella told her to look further – there were no other real places to look, as _Atropa belladonna_ was a rather fast-acting poison, and most of the symptoms could get lost in the usual decomposition of a dead body. Dilated pupils, paralysis, tachycardia, dry mouth – she would not be able to diagnose any of those symptoms, as the patient no longer exhibited any signs of life at all.

She opened his mouth just a touch more, and leaned a little closer for a better look.

Then it hit her. The smell.

Not the rotting, musty stench of death – that was wiped clean by the sanitation of the room itself. The smell was sweet, almost saccharine, and emanating from the boy’s mouth. While deadly nightshade had a sweetness to it upon tasting, Bella knew that the scent of the berries on the plant produced a smell akin to under-ripe tomatoes. This smelled like sugar and fruit.

“Is there a cotton swab available?” she asked, reaching a hand out to where she could see Molly in her peripherals. She heard a handful of steps, a drawer opening, and then more steps back in her direction. The swab was pressed into her hand, and Bella quickly unwrapped it from its sterile casing. Using her thumb to press against the young boy’s teeth on his bottom jaw, she opened his mouth wider and searched for a tooth or a cavern in which to scrape what she was sure she would find. In the back of his bottom jaw, on a still-growing adult molar, she found her prize, and using the cotton swab, she swiped up the residue, slowly inching away from the body as she held her find in the air.

“That’s it?” she heard Lestrade ask, but she didn’t respond. She turned to Molly again.

“Is there a microscope anywhere nearby? And a sterile container for the swab?”

While Molly went to find a case for the cotton swab, Sherlock spoke beside her. “There’s a lab just down the hall. What do you think you’ve found?”

She turned to him with a smirk, and felt a twinge of superiority at the curious look in his eyes. “I’m amazed you haven’t figured it out.”

Before he could respond, Molly returned with a small tube with a stopper. Bella placed the swab inside, and turned back to Molly with a smile. “The lab, then?”

Molly looked between the men in the room, then back to Bella, and she could see from the older woman’s eyes that she was impressed. “Right this way, Miss Hudson.”

Bella fell in step with Molly, not looking to see if the boys had begun to follow. “Please, call me Bella.”

Molly’s answering smile felt like the spark at the start of a friendship.

* * *

It took some time, but after a few adjustments on the dials, Bella had a clear view of the sample on the slide under the microscope. She bit her lip as she searched to identify – aha!

There, mixed in with the belladonna juices, were small granules of cane sugar, as well as a bit or two of what appeared to be pastry.

“Lestrade,” she called across the lab, and glanced up as she heard footsteps walking closer to her spot on the stool. She hadn’t gotten to see where the men had ended up, but now that she was paying attention, she saw Mycroft and Sherlock having a whispered discussion on the far side of the lab, one that looked agitating, if Sherlock’s pinched eyebrows and flared nostrils gave anything away. Molly hadn’t left Bella’s side since they had entered the room, having helped her set up the microscope and the slide.

“Ay, love?” Lestrade was beside her then, still looking out of place among the scientists and snobs in the room.

She nodded to the case file in his hands. “Is there any information in there about what the boy and his uncle were doing _before_ the boy was found?”

The man opened up the file, flipping through a page or two before finding the case notes. “Umm… yeah. Apparently they had been having lunch together, the boy went to play outside, and about an hour later his uncle found him dead in the garden.”

Bella hummed. “Did anybody ask him what they ate for lunch?”

“Yeah – turkey sandwiches and blueberry hand-pies.”

“Bingo,” Bella whispered. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock looked immediately away from his brother and over to Bella, an inquisitive look replacing the annoyed expression from before.

“Come here for a second, take a look at this,” Bella called, pointing to the microscope.

Sherlock hastened over to her perch, his long coat billowing behind him as he went. As he approached, Bella slid off the stool and extended a hand to the microscope, inviting him to look. “Tell me what looks odd about this.”

He peered through the scope, and Bella could see his frown deepening the longer he looked. “There’s sugar and pastry bits in there.”

“What?!” Mycroft and Lestrade both called out together, Mycroft in surprised anger and Lestrade in shock. Molly raised her eyebrows in surprise.

Sherlock stood to his full height again, and smirked over at his brother. “And you said she wouldn’t be able to help.”

Bella interjected then. “The boy and his uncle had blueberry hand-pies as a part of their lunch, no doubt handmade by someone in the home, be it a maid or the uncle himself. They simply replaced the blueberries in one of the pies with belladonna berries – mix it with enough sugar and other ingredients and it will just taste like a sweet fruit, no reason to suspect anything.”

“It was the uncle,” Sherlock chimed in, his deductions in full swing. “He was the only one in the home with the boy at the time, and based on the pictures at the scene and in the home, baking is a passion of his – he has prize ribbons from pie competitions on the walls, and a rather healthy rhubarb plant in the garden. He allowed the boy to die, moved his body beside the belladonna plant in the back of the garden, rubbed his fingertips with the juice of the plant, and _voila –_ accidental poisoning.”

The room went silent for all of a moment, and Bella felt a mixture of different emotions flood the space. She herself felt a little proud, having solved a murder based on nothing more than botany and a little baking knowledge. She could feel the waves of pride ebbing off of Sherlock, but whether that feeling was for her or for his own deductions she couldn’t quite be clear. The shock was easy enough to read on both Lestrade and Mycroft’s faces, but Mycroft was also exuding a lot of anger – most likely because he hadn’t figured it out himself. Molly was just stunned into silence.

“So…” Bella drawled, tucking a lock of auburn hair behind her ear. “You might want to call a lawyer for your lawyer, Mycroft.”

Lestrade jumped up then, reaching into his pocket for his phone. “Gotta call the station,” he murmured. “Suppose we have to make an arrest!” And with that he was out of the lab.

“Mycroft, don’t you suppose you better get to calling some of your people? I don’t quite think you’ll be able to just brush this indiscretion aside, do you?” Sherlock questioned his brother with a small smirk edging up one side of his mouth. Mycroft huffed, his face still contorted into a grimace, and strode from the room, already typing away on his cell phone.

Molly didn’t say anything – she simply left behind Mycroft, but not without giving a small backward glance to Sherlock, who already had his back to the door as he turned to Bella. She looked almost… sad?

Sherlock smiled, his hands coming up to Bella’s shoulders. “You solved it.”

Bella shrugged, still feeling just a touch of pride. “I’m sure you had it figured out before I did, didn’t you?”

“Oh, I did,” Sherlock nodded, his grin turning mischievous. “Easy enough to look inside the boy’s mouth and realize there was something not quite right. Also the stains on his fingertips were a little too fresh to have been hours old when he was found, and his wrists were bruised from being dragged postmortem to the place where he was planted. I just wanted to see if _you_ could get it.”

Bella felt a blush creep up her cheeks, and ducked her head to keep him from noticing. She felt the warmth of his large hands on her shoulders, and the fluttering feeling that came with being in close proximity to him.

But then she heard Mycroft in her head – ‘ _a girl as mundane and unexceptional as you… he will tire of you eventually.'_

With a sudden attack of conscience, Bella stepped backwards, out from under Sherlock’s hands and away from his hypnotizing presence. She took in a gulp of air, still not meeting Sherlock’s eyes, and spoke to her feet. “I think I should go home now. Being in a hospital for too long makes me a little nervous.”

She didn’t look up, but she could feel the confusion in Sherlock’s stare on the top of her head, and she brushed past him to get to the door of the lab. He didn’t ask questions, and she could hear his footsteps behind her as they walked down the hall to the elevator.

Once out of the hospital, Bella took a full, cleansing breath for the first time since entering. The sky was starting to turn a dusky pink as the sun descended slowly over the horizon, and Bella pulled her phone out to check the time. They had been in the hospital for just under an hour – it was now around five in the evening. As her mind wandered to thoughts of dinner, her stomach grumbled loudly.

“Great idea,” she heard beside her, and turned to see Sherlock right at her side again. At her quizzical expression, he pointed to her stomach. “You’re hungry – I am too. Haven’t eaten a proper meal since three days ago, and I’m sure you haven’t touched more than a morsel of food all week due to your exams. Any chance you like Thai?”

Bella blinked. “I, uh…”

Sherlock didn’t wait for a response and turned to the street, attempting to hail a cab. With his back turned to her, Bella took her opportunity to escape and stepped into the whirlwind of people on the crowded sidewalk, wedging her way between bodies until she felt sufficiently hidden. It was about fifteen minutes from Baker Street to the hospital by cab, surely the journey by foot would take no more than an hour and a half if she walked briskly.

As she took measured steps, her effort to blend in maintaining, she took some time to think of what exactly she would have to do once she did actually make it home. No doubt Sherlock would be there before she was – as to whether or not he would wonder where she’d gone or why she’d left him, there was no guarantee. Sherlock didn’t seem the type to question motives, and likely he would just assume that whatever it was between them was over, without further questioning or debate. That was easy. Bella had dealt with friendships ending and crumbling relationships enough to know how it worked – this would be no hardship.

If that were the case though, why was her heart sinking at the mere _thought_ of never hearing Sherlock’s violin again, or of never feeling his slender fingers on her skin, or of never catching his small knowing smirk when it was flashed in her direction?

_This is becoming an infatuation and you know it,_ she chastised herself. _You don’t want to deal with something like that – he’s your neighbor, nothing more. Call Wade, he’s gentle and safe. Safe is good; safe is protective._

Bella reached for her phone, feeling her heart squeeze just a little at the thought of calling Wade and seeing if he wanted to grab some food. Yeah – Wade was the much safer choice here. Not that there was even a _choice_ to make. Sherlock was her neighbor, and formerly someone she considered a friend. He would never be interested in her in any way, and thinking about him in any less-than-platonic way needed to come to a full stop if she were to have any success in furthering relationships _outside_ of Sherlock Holmes.

She had just managed to wrestle her phone out of her jacket pocket when a thin, pale hand shot out from the crowd and started to pull on her arm, locking the limb and tugging roughly. Bella slapped at the hand, jerked against its pull, tried planting her feet, but all to no avail. It was no use anyway – she wasn’t in any danger, she knew who the hand belonged to. She just wasn’t ready to face the owner yet.

She had stumbled into a back alley when Sherlock finally released his hold, his hands quickly shoved into his pockets as he took a few strides away. When he turned to face her, Bella cringed. The look on his face spoke a lot of emotions all at once – anger, confusion, hurt, all tied together with a ribbon of regret. Bella looked to the ground and bit her lip, her mind fumbling for something to say.

“What did my brother say to you?”

Bella’s eyes snapped up to Sherlock’s – his gaze was grey-blue, a hazy fog that did no good in masking his emotions. This was clearly not the first time Mycroft had attempted to keep Sherlock shut off from the world, from having friendships and knowing people intimately – he had recognized her intentions far too fast for it to not have happened before. She swallowed hard, then sighed, her shoulders drooping.

“Nothing that I didn’t already know, Sherlock.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Bella took a step closer, “you and I are not supposed to be friends. Your brother made some excellent points – you’ve even said yourself that sentimentality is a weakness, especially to someone who needs to be strong-willed and intellectually keen in order to make it through life. I suppose I’m neither of those things. I’m unimportant and ordinary. I like to feel emotions, I enjoy building relationships, having acquaintances, making _friends_. It is perfectly fine if you are not the same way, but allowing me into your life is allowing that kind of emotional connection. And I don’t think you want that, despite how much I think you might need it.” She stood to her full height then, putting her shoulders back and taking a full breath to push her chest out a little further. “So we are neighbors. Nothing more, nothing less. You live in the flat above mine, and that’s all. Eventually one of us will move out, and then we’ll have nothing more to say or do with one another. How does that sound?”

“Miserable,” came the immediate response.

Bella felt her resolve start to crumble at that one word. Not good.

Sherlock took a deep breath and a step closer. “I have spent my entire life making an effort to be like my brother, at least in that one way. No relationships, no friends – no reason to express emotions. My lifestyle, my personality, my profession, it all makes it exceedingly easy to lock others out, to keep myself in my little shell of a world. But…” He shook his head, shutting his eyes for a moment. “But it is bothersome, now. I used to be comfortable in it, but now I despise it. And that’s your fault.”

Bella was flabbergasted. “ _My_ fault?”

“Yep.”

“How in the hell is it my fault?”

At this, Sherlock took a few steps until he was right in her space, his imposing stature making her have to look almost straight up in order to meet his measured gaze. He offered her a very small, soft smile, and lifted his right arm to gently place his palm on top of her head. His thumb grazed her hair delicately, and the warmth of his touch trickled down Bella’s body like raindrops.

“Alone can’t protect you. People can protect you. The ones that are loyal, the ones that love you, they can protect you. Even from yourself.”

Bella felt her eyes widen as she recognized the words she had said to Sherlock no more than two months ago in his flat, when he had insisted being alone was his form of armor against the world. His hand on her head dropped to her shoulder, the other hand coming up to the opposite side.

“You,” he insisted, shaking her once for emphasis, “ _you_ made my alone feel like an empty space rather than a safe one. _You_ made a crack in my marble. _You_ caused me to feel, just a little, like I was important to someone for just a moment.” At this, he bent down, coming to her eye-line and meeting her stare head-on. “ _You_ did this. You don’t get to walk away from it, and I know you don’t want to, if the way your breath is hitching and the way your eyes are tearing up has anything to do with it. Please, for your sake as well as mine… don’t give up on me.”

Bella felt said tears trickle over her eyelids and down her cheeks at his words, and she reached up quickly to brush them away. She stepped back out from under his hands, continuing to wipe at her eyes. “We’re nothing alike – like Mycroft said, you’ll tire of me. You’ll realize how different we are and get bored with me. That’s no basis for a friendship.”

“Oh, Mycroft can bugger off,” he muttered, and she chuckled for a moment at the sound of those words in Sherlock’s refined tone. “Besides, I’m not looking for a friend. I’m looking for a business partner.”

Bella glanced up, readjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose. “Business partner? What are you talking about?”

Sherlock shoved his hands deep in his pockets, rocking back and forth slightly on the balls of his feet. Bella would never understand how a man who stood at six feet tall could look like a small child so effortlessly.

“Well, I’ve been saying for years that I need an assistant. I have never found anybody worthy of the task. I don’t believe you really are either – you’re still a student, you don’t have a great eye for the obvious, you’re more fact-based and intellectual than observant-“

“Sherlock,” Bella interrupted, holding a hand up to stop his tirade of insults. “Get to the point before you lose your audience.”

He stopped his rocking motion, planting his feet and meeting her eyes head-on. “You solved that case in there. Not by observation, but by knowledge. You knew what was wrong because there are certain things you remain aware of, certain facts you retain, which I imagine is why your intelligence quotient is so high. Your memory is photographic. While that isn’t quite the same as what I do, I cannot deny that it can be useful. You also happen to be one of the only people I have met in the last seven years that I can stand to be around for longer than a handful of minutes.”

Bella allowed her brain to catch up to what he was insinuating. “So… you want me to work cases with you?”

He nodded once, his dark curls bouncing almost merrily.

“I… I’m a student, I wouldn’t have the time.”

“It would only be on your own time. Whatever you’re willing to do. Weekends, holiday breaks – whatever you have time for.”

“I already have a job.”

“At the bakery down the way? Not likely that will last. While it might be _fun_ , somehow I doubt it provides you with the stimulation you need.”

“How would I even make money if this is purely on a consultant basis?”

“Whatever cases you help with, we will split the fees down the middle. I’m sure your aunt could cut me a deal with the rent if I come up short from sharing with her niece.”

“I have a boyfriend again.”

At this, Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes. “I’m not asking you to _marry me_ , Bella, I’m asking for your help. And believe me, _that_ isn’t going to last long either.”

Bella scoffed, crossing her arms. “How in the hell would you know that? When did you become the expert on relationships?”

“I don’t have to be an expert in romantic attachment to know a failing relationship when I see one. That boy is two years older than you and two degrees behind – you said yourself your brain is too high-functioning for anyone to understand. As far as I can tell, I’m the only person you have met in recent years who is able to keep up. How long do you think he will be willing to trail behind you? If none of the other men in your life were able to, what makes you so sure that this forensics student will be able to do the same?”

Bella laughed darkly. “I’m not even going to ask how you knew all of those things about Wade. And if you follow your logic, the only person worthy of my time would be you.”

He shrugged, smirking in his usual superior way. “Hence why I’m asking for your help.”

“I’ll never have a life again.”

“Oh, who needs a life? Lives are boring.” He smiled then, looking over at Bella from under his long lashes. “Come on. It wouldn’t be all bad.”

Bella sighed, long and loud, running a hand through her hair. Fondling the split ends as her fingers combed through the strands that came down past her shoulders, she winced. She _absolutely_ needed a haircut.

She also absolutely needed something to keep her mind occupied. She absolutely needed a friend, something she hadn’t truly had since before middle school. She absolutely needed a real job, a way to make money without it feeling forced, something to keep her focus up. She absolutely needed a way to be around Sherlock without getting too attached, without developing romantic sentiments due to inactivity, a way to watch him be annoying and degrading so she would be rid of whatever fascination she had developed.

She absolutely needed to think about this.

“You, um… you said something about Thai?” she mumbled, scratching the back of her neck. “Any chance we can grab some take out and discuss this further back at Baker Street? I have some questions and I think it would be best to discuss them in a neutral setting – back alley conversations don’t necessarily keep my head on straight.”

Sherlock didn’t smile, but Bella saw the spark of life in his eyes flash brightly.

There were still things to discuss, but for now, as Bella walked back onto the crowded sidewalk with her arm hooked through Sherlock’s as he attempted to hail a cab, she felt like she had started off in the right direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SOOOOOOOOOOOO sorry for taking forever on this chapter, guys. This is one of those ones that just wasn't coming to me with a whole story, so I sorta let Bella take the reins and just ride on this one.  
> Hence why the rating is jumping to explicit much earlier than I planned - much like Diana Gabaldon's Claire in Outlander, 'the bitch just wouldn't shut up'.  
> Anyway, hopefully the next chapter will be easier to write than this one, so it'll be up a lot sooner!  
> Thank you to everyone who has sent kudos and comments my way, I genuinely appreciate all of ya'll!


	4. Stolen (Alternatively, Christmas at 221B)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You are the best one of the best ones,  
> We all look like we feel;  
> You have stolen my heart."

“Will you be _quiet?!_ ”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“Well stop _thinking so loudly_ , then!”

Bella huffed, throwing her hands into the air to resist the urge to flip over the board sitting between her and her current adversary. He was bent over in his black leather chair, his fingers steepled beneath his nose in that way he did when he was deep in thought, his nostrils flaring. He stared at the mix of cards and plastic pieces in front of him, his blue-green eyes flashing back and forth, his mind obviously at hard work.

Bella leaned back in the big, stuffed armchair she was currently nestled in and stared at her companion, biting her lip to hold a laugh at bay when he started to mutter to himself. Playing _Cluedo_ with only two people was a difficult challenge, made even more so when playing with the world’s only consulting detective.

The last two weeks had been nothing short of eventful, more so than Bella had intended them to be when she had started her holiday break from school. Rather than spending her days playing piano, reading the stack of books she had in her closet, or getting to know her new beau Wade better, Bella had been running all over the Queen’s country with Sherlock, solving cases that would range from missing pets to multiple homicides. She’d seen more dead bodies and ruined families than a person would want to – not to mention the six heartbroken sisters last week who had found out they were all flirting online with the same man: their own step-brother. It had taken Sherlock no more than five minutes to figure out the case, while Bella had attempted to calm down the crying brood. She had ended up having to call Lestrade when three of the sisters began to beat their step-brother mercilessly with their purses and shoes; the poor sod had made the dumbass decision to come along for the sake of ‘caring’, not realizing he would be outed almost immediately.

But somehow, in spite of the nature of their job, Bella found herself almost having fun. While murder, robbery and fraudulence were not necessarily things to be giddy about, she couldn’t help but give herself over to the thrill of the chase, and always found herself feeling pride when all was solved. She could imagine getting addicted to the shivers that ran up and down her spine at the thought of a new case, imagined that’s exactly how Sherlock felt. It was intoxicating – the danger, the intrigue. It was all so new, but in some strange way, it felt as though Bella should have been doing this all along.

It also helped that working closely with Sherlock gave her ample opportunity to witness his less-appealing sides. In the beginnings of their friendship, Sherlock had been curt on occasion, but for the most part showed the decorum of a perfect, well-bred gentleman. His strong posture and self-assured grin were essential in his initial charming of Bella, that much was obvious. But since their partnership as colleagues had begun, the small flame that had been burning in Bella’s heart for Sherlock was quickly and thoroughly doused.

Sherlock was, in essence, a rather large and intimidating child. He complained incessantly about certain aspects of life, like how tea should absolutely _never_ go cold and if it did it was his job to make a nuisance of himself about it. Or how his old scarf had ripped beyond repair a week ago and it was the fault of the whole universe that his neck was cold now when he went outside. Or how Bella’s new boyfriend was far too distracting to ‘the work’, no matter how infrequently he stopped by or how much Sherlock himself found distractions left and right.

It wasn’t just the complaining, either – it was the gesticulation and physicality, as well. Sherlock moved more than a toddler with a sugar rush, constantly flying this way and that way just to get from place to place. He was like a tornado, with no regard to what damage he left in his wake, be it knocking Bella’s teacup from her hand and onto the floor, or smashing his own chemistry equipment on the kitchen table. The man was a whirling dervish of destruction, and it didn’t help that he never cleaned up after himself when he caused chaos.

After no more than a week in Sherlock’s bubble of personal space, Bella had forgotten her past proclivity towards the gangly man-child, and had refocused her romantic feelings on Wade. Things had been going… okay, in that department. They hadn’t done anything more than go out to dinner a few times, and while Bella enjoyed holding hands and kissing sweetly on the doorstep, she couldn’t help but feel there was something missing in her relationship with Wade. She couldn’t pinpoint what it was exactly, but it niggled in the back of her mind every time he called or texted her, a barely-there breeze of a feeling that something was just… wrong.

“A- _ha!_ I knew it!”

Bella looked up from her musings, sitting a bit straighter in her chair. “Think you’ve solved it now?”

The answering smile on Sherlock’s face exuded smugness. “I don’t think – I know.”

“Well, go on then.”

Sherlock’s hand slammed on the table, causing two of the pieces on the board to leap from their positions and roll carelessly to the floor. “The weapon was the dagger, the room was the conservatory, and the murderer was none other than Dr. Black himself!”

Bella groaned, plopping her face into her waiting palms. This was the third time _in an hour_.

“Sherlock, I already told you, the victim can’t commit suicide! It’s in the rules – the murderer has to be one of the other characters!”

A cacophony of plastic on hardwood made Bella’s head shoot up out of her hands, her eyes steady on Sherlock.

He had, in a fit of childish behavior, flipped over the game board, the many pieces and cards now littering the floor, the board slapping down in front of her chair. He looked unabashed about the situation, some cards still fluttering down to the floor as he stared right back at Bella, his gaze challenging.

The silence was tense and deafening… until Bella began to laugh.

She rolled her head back and let out a loud guffaw that reverberated through the flat, her stomach jumping so much with the force of her laughter that she could hardly breathe. She closed her eyes and leaned back again, cackling all the more at the look of surprise on Sherlock’s face at her reaction. After a few more seconds, Bella let out the last of her chuckles, slowly opening her eyes again.

Sherlock was gone.

She scanned the flat for all of a second when she heard the telltale creak of the door up the stairs that led to the roof. She sighed, long and exasperated, and followed behind her partner, taking the stairs two at a time to catch up.

When she made it to the rooftop, she was more than a little surprised to find Sherlock standing by the ledge, a cigarette hanging from his mouth as he dug in his pockets for a lighter. So _that_ would explain why his jacket always smelled a little like ash. As she came closer, he found his prize and lit the cigarette, taking a long drag before exhaling a puff of cloudy smoke.

“You know,” Bella declared, sidling up to the taller man, “those things could kill you.”

Sherlock scoffed, his cigarette dangling between two of his long, elegant fingers. “You are one to talk. I’ve smelled smoke on you at least five times in the last week, and I spotted the pack of menthols you keep hidden in the piano bench. Aren’t you studying to be a doctor? Shouldn’t _you_ know the dangers of smoking?”

Bella rolled her eyes as she plopped down on the ledge, facing him. The warmth of the sun on her face was offset by the brisk chill of the winter wind; they would likely have to go inside soon, as the sun was quickly dipping over the horizon. “I’m a botanist and a musician, not a medical doctor. I can either sing a few songs about smoking or give you the scientific names of some of the more deadly substances in that stick – that doesn’t mean I know exactly what they do, nor do I particularly care. And for your information, about half of the M.D. students I go to school with smoke at least half a pack a day.”

Sherlock hummed noncommittally, taking another drag and staring off at the city below, no doubt watching for any reason to start a new case.

It was December 22nd, only three days before Christmas, and lately the murder sprees and small misdemeanors had taken a backseat in the throes of the holiday spirit – there hadn’t been a case in days. Hence why Sherlock had suggested Cluedo as a way to keep his mind active… yeah, that worked out _brilliantly_.

“Any chance I could bum one off of you?” Bella asked, glancing up to Sherlock’s eyes. They were a muted shade of cyan today – likely the lack of vibrancy came from the lack of casework. “That game was stressful, if you can believe it.”

Sherlock huffed out another cloud of smoke, tapping the cigarette gently to rid the end of the excess ash. Without a word, he turned the lit stick between his fingers and faced the butt in Bella’s direction, shoving it further under her nose when she didn’t immediately react.

“I was asking for one of my own,” she murmured, breathing in the scent of the smoky tendrils wafting from the lit end. They were high-tar, unfiltered – clearly Sherlock cared very little about the state of his lungs.

He rolled his eyes and groaned dramatically as he sat down beside her, a little too close for comfort. “It’s just a cigarette. Besides, I’m running low and I want to make them last through the New Year – trying to cut back. I’d rather not give up one more than I have to, so unless you have an aversion to germs, which I know you don’t based on your sharing habits with your aunt and that boy you’ve been dating, just smoke the bloody fag with me.”

With lifted brows and a small smirk, Bella picked the cigarette up from between Sherlock’s spindly fingers and put it between her lips. She took a deep drag, the slight burn down her throat almost comforting in its recurrence, and slowly removed the butt from her mouth as she released a long stream of smoke from between pursed lips. She handed the cigarette back, leaning forward on her knees after Sherlock took the stick.

He took a long inhale before speaking. “Why was the game stressful to you? Were you not able to make the deductions?”

Bella chuckled, mildly amused, as Sherlock passed the cigarette over again. “It was stressful because you can never seem to just be content to follow the rules! The three cards in the envelope must be the weapon, the room and the killer, but Dr. Black isn’t even one of the cards. Suicide is not an option – it’s in the rules!”

“Well, then the rules are wrong,” Sherlock shrugged, watching as Bella let out a huff of smoke as she laughed again. “Besides, following rules makes for a boring life. Who ever lived their life by going along with the straight-laced laws of the game?”

Bella passed the cig back, smirking. “You make a fair point there.”

“If you ask me,” Sherlock continued, ashing the cigarette before settling it between his teeth as he spoke, “life is more bearable when lived at least a little dangerously. Look at the two of us for example. We’re both intelligent people – maybe not at the same level, but still. We know the dangers of smoking: lung cancer, throat cancer, deadly toxins. Yet here we are, sharing a ciggie, not quite looking to die but just flirting with the idea.” At this, he sucked in a drag and took the cig out of his mouth, breathing the smoke out around his words. “Danger makes for a more interesting ride. Nobody ever made a story out of playing it safe.”

“I can agree with that,” Bella nodded. “For instance, if I were playing it safe, I would have spent the last weeks curled up in bed with good books, or playing piano, not running around the streets of London with you.”

The responding laugh was startling, but it made Bella’s heart feel a little warmer. “Are you calling me dangerous? _Me?_ I’m just a high-functioning sociopath with a job title I created and no friends to my name. How could _I_ be dangerous?”

Bella smiled cheekily, catching the hint of sarcasm in his statement. She snatched the nearly-finished cigarette from between Sherlock’s lips and placed it in her own mouth, taking the final drag. “What you lack in friends,” she breathed, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s, “you make up for in enemies and life-threatening work. I would call that dangerous.”

“Then why aren’t you running?” he retorted, his gaze suddenly shifting from joking to challenging. The air between them grew tense as Bella became hyper-aware of his proximity, their faces no more than a few inches apart. She took a moment to really observe the man in front of her – he didn’t look quite so tired, likely from getting decent sleep due to a lack of criminal activity to investigate. His cheeks didn’t look so hollow anymore, nor did his skin look pallid and sickly. He was slowly starting to look human again, his alluring beauty returning after months of withdrawal and restless nights had left him looking ragged.

Bella wondered for a fleeting moment what might happen if she just leaned a little bit closer…

 _NO_ , came the commanding voice of reason from the back of her mind. _You lost those feelings for him, remember? He’s nothing but a tall child; you need someone more mature than that. Sociopaths are known for being charming – don’t let him seduce you like this!_

Almost like a sign from some higher power, Bella’s phone began to ring in her pocket, shattering the connection between them like a thin pane of glass. She pulled the offending object out and resisted the urge to sigh sadly at the sight of Wade’s name flashing across the screen. She also resisted the urge to think of why on Earth she would be sad about getting a call from her boyfriend.

“I guess that’s my cue,” she mumbled, pocketing the phone again without answering as she stood up. She knew that when Wade called it meant he was outside the front door waiting for her – she had nearly forgotten their dinner plans for tonight, so lost she had been in the games of the afternoon. She flicked the still-smoking cigarette butt to the ground, stamping it out under her shoe.

Sherlock came up to his feet as well, stretching up on his toes languidly like a cat. “You know, a gentleman would come to the door and escort you out, not call you and expect you to come outside. That’s about as rude as just honking a car horn until you hear it.”

Bella snorted. “And what would you honestly know about being a _real_ gentleman? You just happen to be a good actor – you don’t have a gentlemanly bone in your whole body.”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at this, and without another word, he locked his hand around Bella’s and dragged her through the door swiftly.

“Sherlock, what the _hell_?” she huffed as he continued to pull on her arm, the door slamming shut behind them as he moved down the three flights of stairs at a brisk pace. He didn’t respond, and as she tripped along behind him, Bella wondered what sort of impish thoughts were running through his mind.

Once they finally reached the foyer, Sherlock released Bella’s hand and lifted her winter jacket off of its designated coat hook. He unceremoniously draped it over her shoulders, tossed her scarf about her neck, and shoved her directly in front of the door. With a smirk, he clicked the lock and pulled the wood open, his usual smugness shifting into a polite smile as Wade came into view.

Bella’s boyfriend was standing with his hands shoved in his pockets, his thin bottom lip pulled between his teeth in anticipation. His eyebrows rose as he took in the sight of a disheveled Bella with her outdoor wear wrapped loosely around her, a smartly-dressed Sherlock Holmes at her side. The detective’s posture straightened and Bella could swear from her peripherals that he lifted his head just a touch, elevating his already immense stature.

“Hello, Mr. Addair,” he drawled, giving Wade a cordial nod of his head. It occurred to Bella that in the time since she and Sherlock had been working together, this was the first time her partner and her boyfriend had met face-to-face. When faced with the sudden encounter, she found herself almost panicking – would Wade be jealous? Would Sherlock do his deductions and be arrogant and off-putting? Would the two of them-

Bella was cut off from her musings by a slight nudge on the small of her back by Sherlock, and found herself on the doorstep rather than inside the foyer. Sherlock continued to speak from behind her.

“I imagine you’re here to take young Miss Hudson on what people refer to as a ‘date.’ It is not my fashion to partake in such activities; however,” and here his voice gained an edge, and Bella could perfectly picture his eyebrows furrowing and his genial expression growing dark, “I do believe it is far more customary to _knock on the door_ and ask for the lady rather than make a phone call and expect an answering action. That’s what a _gentleman_ would do.”

Bella watched a deep red flush color Wade’s face, and his green eyes flicked over to her own, a cross between fear and desperation written across his gaze. Bella mouthed ‘I’m sorry’ to him, hoping her apologetic expression was masking the slight humor she felt at Sherlock’s mild aggression. She couldn’t disagree with him – Wade’s way of getting her attention had been an annoyance for her.

She turned back to her neighbor, but before she could utter another word, he leaned down and reached for her hand, pressing it to his lips quickly. Bella’s heart faltered as Sherlock met her eyes from his lower position, one eyebrow raised in a self-satisfied expression.

“Have a good evening, Arabella,” he breathed over her knuckles, the warm air raising goosebumps on her quickly-chilling skin. “Thank you for your company this afternoon, it was thoroughly appreciated. I’m sure I will see you at some point tomorrow. Goodnight.”

With a self-satisfied smirk, he once again stood to his full height, and all but slammed the door in Bella’s face, her hand still partially outstretched.

“So… that must have been Sherlock, eh?”

She turned to the source of the voice, to be met with Wade’s own smirking face, his emerald eyes glinting with amusement, and what appeared to be a hint of jealousy. Somehow, Bella couldn’t help but think that the bemused curve of his mouth looked better on Sherlock’s cupid’s-bow lips.

“Sorry, yeah,” she mumbled, slipping her arms through the sleeves of her jacket and wrapping the scarf more securely around her neck. “Obnoxious, isn’t he?”

Wade hummed in agreement, his hand smoothly sliding into Bella’s. She took note of how much smaller it felt in her grasp than a certain detective’s large palm. “He seems… a bit rude, to be honest with ya.”

Bella laughed, squeezing her boyfriend’s hand jovially. “He can be, yeah. But I can’t say he was wrong – knocking is a _bit_ more polite than a phone call.” She rolled her eyes heavenward and shrugged. “Just saying.”

Wade chuckled, but there was little humor in it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

As they made their way down Baker Street, Bella swore she could hear the faint whine of a violin. She bit her lip to hide a smile.

* * *

_BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP._

Bella bolted upright, her head swiveling to-and-fro in an effort to determine the source of the abrupt noise that had jarred her slumber. She slammed her hand down on the alarm clock on her bedside table, but the noise continued on. As her senses became more aware, she shoved her hands over her ears and swung herself out of bed, jogging out of her room and down the hall.

As she passed the kitchen window, she saw that the moon still hung in the sky, a small line of light coming up over the horizon. It couldn’t be more than five in the morning. A bright, blinking red light from the ceiling told her that the blaring sound was the fire alarm, a fact made more evident by the trail of opaque grey smoke emanating from the floor above as she entered the foyer.

Aunt Martha stood at the bottom of the steps, her hands shoving the edges of her nightcap over her ears in an effort to drown out the noise. She called up the stairs as the alarm wailed on, clearly worried that something might be wrong with Sherlock, as it was his apartment that seemed to be on fire.

“AUNT MARTHA!” Bella screamed over the blaring, making her aunt jump. “I’LL GO GET HIM, GET OUTSIDE AND CALL SOMEBODY!”

Aunt Martha didn’t hesitate, knowing that Bella was younger and would get to him faster, and rushed outside as soon as Bella handed off her cell phone. She covered her nose with her shirt, ignoring the deafening crescendo of noise in her left ear, and leapt up the stairs as fast as her legs would take her, breathing shallowly so as not to take in too much smoke.

When she reached the open door to the flat, she saw no blazing orange flames licking across the furniture, or even a small fire in the grate. Instead, she witnessed a very frazzled and tired-looking Sherlock, who was waving a broomstick at the fire alarm in the living room, the wide windows open and letting in the cold night breeze as the smoke poured out.

She could smell something burning, and glanced around the corner into the kitchen, where she watched the ashen remains of some food item smolder in a glass pan, that somehow also managed to look blackened.

The alarm finally ceased, and Sherlock dropped his arms back to his sides, his eyes slipping shut as a sigh of relief blew out from between his lips. He evidently still hadn’t noticed his company, if the jump he gave at Bella’s small cough was any indication.

“Oh!” he exclaimed as his expression of surprise turned to sheepishness. “Did I wake you?”

Bella chuckled, jamming a finger into her ear in an effort to stop the ringing that the alarm had left behind. “I’m sure the whole block is up and ready to greet the day by now.”

He bit his lip and dipped his head, his dark curls appearing to be matted with sweat and… was that flour in his hair? “I apologize. I never said I was good at everything.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself, Sherlock. You aren’t good at anything,” Bella joked sarcastically, patting his arm and turning the corner into the kitchen. It appeared that the glass pan on the counter was not the only carcass in Sherlock’s apparent graveyard of experiments – every surface contained a different baking dish with a different burnt something inside, though none of them were nearly as black as his latest creation.

He looked ready to retort with a snarky comeback when she spun around, raising an eyebrow at him. “Taking up a new hobby? Never thought of you as a chef, sir.”

Sherlock clamped his mouth shut and rolled his eyes – a deep shade of blue this morning. “Not a hobby. It started as an experiment, and slowly became an exercise in futility.”

“And a descent into madness, it seems,” Bella giggled, rubbing a smudge of what looked to be gravy (or some similar substance) off of his high cheekbone with her thumb. “What on Earth are you up to?”

“Reanimating a human creature with the power of lightning,” he grumbled, nudging past Bella with a roll of his eyes. He pulled a small black bottle from an upper cabinet, followed by two glass tumblers, and sat heavily in one of the chairs around the table, shoving aside a ceramic dish filled with what appeared to be charred peas and carrots. He popped the cork off the bottle and poured a finger of clear liquid into one of the glasses, knocking it back like water. He barely grimaced at the burn. “Care to join me?”

Bella blinked. “Liquor. At,” she checked the clock, “five twenty-seven in the morning. You’re joking.”

He gulped another shot, his hand coming up to rub at his eyes. “Time is a meaningless concept. Getting drunk is getting drunk – the exact hour, minute or second of the day has no bearing on it.”

Bella shrugged – she had no response to that – and raised a finger to indicate her need to step back for a moment. Without a word, she stuck her head out the open window, peering down into the street.

Aunt Martha gazed back up at her, her white nightgown practically glowing in the growing sunlight of the horizon. Mrs. Turner from next door had joined her, likely awoken by all the commotion as much as they had been.

“Everything alright, Bells?” Aunt Martha called up, holding up Bella’s phone in the other hand. “I didn’t call anybody just in case it was only another one of Sherlock’s experiments gone awry.”

Bella smiled fondly at her aunt. “Everything’s fine – Sherlock just burned some food.”

At this, Aunt Martha laughed so hard it bounced off the brick walls of the nearby residences. “Sherlock? Cooking? Why on Earth would he go and do a thing like that?”

A glass slammed down on the kitchen table behind Bella. “Oh, _sod off,_ the whole lot of you!”

With an exaggerated roll of her eyes, Bella glanced back down at her aunt, who still looked quite amused. “Tetchy. I’ll get things sorted up here – you can just leave my phone in my room if you want!”

She dipped her head back inside after waving Aunt Martha away, closing the window to cut off the brisk chill of the December morning. After shutting the second window as well, she turned back to her partner, who was now slumped so far into his chair he looked as though he would melt into a puddle on the floor at any second. She smiled, huffing out a laugh under her breath at his distraught, glassy-eyed expression, and perched herself in the chair across from him, pouring out a small shot of the clear fluid in the bottle.

The burn was so intense Bella nearly spat the vodka out, her tongue feeling as though it were another one of Sherlock’s failed recipes. “What the hell _is_ this?” she choked out, coughing once and wiping her mouth with her shirt sleeve.

Sherlock’s eyes rolled over to where she sat, his expression growing more and more blank as he sat there – clearly he had been taking more shots than she had realized while her back had been turned. “Pincer Shanghai Strength,” he mumbled, sloppily pouring himself another finger. “Scottish vodka. 178 proof.”

Bella stood from her chair and leaned across the table to snatch the glass out of Sherlock’s hand. She smoothly slid the bottle away from his side as well before he’d had enough time to react, smirking at his indignant expression. “You’ve had enough, I think.” She corked the bottle and sat back in her chair again, leaning on the back two legs. “What are you cooking for anyway? I thought you weren’t having company for Christmas.”

He had expressed his views on the holiday season quite clearly not a week before, stating his lack of enthusiasm over the commercialization of Christmas and New Year’s Eve combined. She recalled the expression he’d given her when she had mentioned the possibility of him joining her and her aunt for Christmas celebrations: flared nostrils, furrowed eyebrows, and his cat-like glasz eyes turning into dark slits. If there was one thing she was certain of now more than ever, it was that Sherlock Holmes and holidays didn’t mix.

“I wasn’t supposed to,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his tired-looking face. “However, my mother called last night after you had left and said that she and my father had decided to come to London to celebrate the occasion with my brother and me. They intend to spend most of their time at his but insisted upon having Christmas Eve dinner here, so they can see my new flat for themselves.” He sat up further in his chair, seeming to gain his bearings, before he slumped fully over the table top, his long arms stretched out towards Bella and his face pressed into the wood. “Arguing with my mother never ends well for anybody, so I agreed. I’ve been attempting to prepare for the meal since then, but… well,” he gestured to the kitchen lazily, lifting a hand briefly to wave it around before it slapped back down on the table, “you can see how well that turned out.”

Bella bit back a laugh, nodding slowly. “I suppose take out isn’t an option?”

Sherlock lifted his head up to look at her, resting his chin on the tabletop and glaring at her with narrowed eyes. “I would rather not suffer the disappointed looks of the woman who brought me into this world, thank you very much Arabella.”

“Do you have any other suggestions?” Bella slumped in her seat, gesturing to the charred décor adorning every surface of the small kitchen. “Clearly you are not very adept at the culinary arts.”

He whined, low in his throat, and proceeded to bang his head onto the table. Bella slid a hand towards him, laying her palm over where his head made contact with the glossy wood, cushioning the blow. Sherlock rested his forehead on her skin, letting out a gasping breath. “I need a cigarette.”

Bella rolled her eyes. “No, I think you more likely need sleep. I know you didn’t sleep the other night because you were hunting for a case, and clearly you haven’t slept tonight.” She shifted out of her chair, still half-leaning over the table due to the current position of her hand, and came around to his side, pulling him up by the shoulder. “I’m wide-awake now – how about you get some rest and I’ll clean up in here? We’ll figure out your Christmas dinner debacle once you’ve had a nice long nap.”

He didn’t respond, just stared at her with glazed, heavy-lidded eyes. In the dawning sunlight streaming through the wide windows of the living room, his ocean irises glowed like blue fire. Bella gulped the lump that had settled in her throat, coughing slightly.

“You know something,” Sherlock murmured, his head lolling to one side as Bella used all of her strength to lift him from under the armpits and heft him onto his feet, “you’re really quite a handsome woman. Maybe not in a conventional sense but you have very lovely features.”

“Ooookay,” Bella huffed out a strained laugh, using all of the force she could muster to keep her blood from painting her cheeks with a blush. “Something tells me that vodka just kicked in!”

They stumbled a few steps down the hall towards Sherlock’s bedroom. “No, I mean it!” he slurred. One of his hands slapped against the wall, bringing them to a pause as he bored his eyes into hers. “You’re beautiful, Bella.”

The blush only increased as Bella rolled her eyes fondly. “If alcohol is what it takes to get you to be nice, maybe I ought to be spiking your tea.”

He hummed amusedly, shuffling the remaining few steps to the room, leaning all of his weight on Bella’s side. When the bed came into view, the corners of his mouth turned up almost comically, and he dropped like a dead weight onto the comforter, his legs draped over the edge. Bella swore she heard a snore before he even hit the mattress.

With one last grunt, she shoved his legs over onto the bed, and stood for a moment, watching her friend sleep as she caught her breath. She couldn’t recall ever seeing him so calm – his whole aura was normally pure energy, a crackling essence that was tangible when standing in his proximity. He could make the most active person seem like a couch potato with the way he bounced and bounded through rooms, taking up most of the space within.

Now, in this serene moment, he was lying still, nearly in a fetal position, his back turned to Bella. She watched the slow, rhythmic rise-and-fall of his ribcage, barely able to count each individual bone there. God, he was so thin, almost to the point of being skeletal. Yet somehow, he managed to dance through life with so much spirit, sometimes running on nothing more than last night’s tea cake and a cigarette. He truly was remarkable, and the longer Bella sat and watched, the more her heart swelled just thinking about the odd, astounding man sleeping so peacefully before her.

 _No,_ she scolded herself, shaking her head with a small gasp. _This is ridiculous. He’s Sherlock – we’ve been over this._

She bit her lip hard, shutting her eyes to block out the view of Sherlock being… well, for lack of a better word, adorable. Now was definitely not the time to be reigniting barely-put-out flames… now was the time to be cleaning out the remnants of burnt-out ones.

She closed the door behind her slowly and marched to the kitchen, sighing heavily as she grabbed the nearest dish and began to clean.

Most of the ashen remains fell out on their own, while other dishes required heavier scrubbing, some of them taking her near on twenty minutes to clean fully. Some of the glass pans seemed permanently blackened, but nothing was left unusable, and within two hours the kitchen had been restored to its former glory, the smell of burning food effectively wiped clean by dish detergent and countertop cleaner.

At seven-thirty, Aunt Martha tip-toed her way up the stairs, a mug of coffee and an egg sandwich in hand, spying a tired Bella reclining in Sherlock’s black leather chair, her head leaned back and her eyes closed. She opened one eye when she heard movement, and smiled fondly at her aunt.

“Mmmm, sustenance,” she muttered, flinging herself out of the chair and skipping to her aunt, planting a kiss on the woman’s cheek. Aunt Martha swatted her away affectionately, and Bella went to Sherlock’s desk, tucking into her breakfast with gusto.

“Well done with the cleaning, love,” Aunt Martha acknowledged, her eyes roving over the kitchen and the clean dishes sitting by the sink. “What on Earth was that man thinking, cooking an entire meal on his own? I’ve seen him burn tea before.”

Bella chuckled, wiping a bit of cheese from the side of her mouth. “Apparently his parents are coming to visit for Christmas. They’re coming here for dinner tomorrow and he’s more than a little nervous. Can’t say I’ve ever seen him like this.”

The older woman nodded, clicking her tongue in a disapproving manner. “Suppose he should have accepted our invitation, hmm?”

Bella nodded, sipping her coffee. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Don’t you have a hair appointment later today, love? Oh, it’ll be so nice to see you looking like your old self again! School and all this running about with Sherlock has really made you look haggard.”

Bella rolled her eyes at her aunt, mock-glaring. “Thank you, Aunt Martha. My appointment isn’t until three-thirty this afternoon…” She trailed off, thinking for a moment, the gears in her mind beginning to churn faster and faster as the food and coffee settled into her system. She jumped up suddenly, an idea blinking blindingly bright in the forefront of her mind. “Aunt Martha! Can you grab a few things from downstairs for me? I have an idea and I need to get started before I run out of time!”

With Aunt Martha’s help, Bella lugged several bags of ingredients, cooking supplies, and Christmas decorations up the stairs from their kitchen to Sherlock’s flat. The décor available had been sparse – no more than a few strings of tinsel, a very small pre-decorated plastic tree, and some mistletoe hanging from a bright red ribbon. Putting the decorations around the flat for added festivity took no more than five minutes, and as soon as the mistletoe was hanging in the doorway of the flat, Bella rushed to the kitchen, quickly running through her memorized file of recipes.

Time got lost for a while after that. While Bella did keep an eye on the clock (rescheduling hair appointments was always a difficult task, especially so close to Christmas), she wasn’t prepared for how quickly the hands shifted, and in what felt like no more than one hour, nearly five had passed by. By then, the burning smell had been long forgotten, and replaced by the enticing scents of baked goods and cooking vegetables. Bella had managed a few varieties of cookies and some rosemary olive-oil bread, and was putting the finishing touches on a herbed chicken and vegetable medley (all Sherlock would have to do tomorrow is manage not to burn it in the oven) when she heard heavy footfalls heading toward the bathroom. Sherlock was awake.

“Oh joy,” Bella muttered as she heard the shower start up and the bathroom door slam shut. Hopefully a shower would sober him up and make him feel more like himself. She moved a couple of his newest experiments out of the way in the refrigerator – one bag looked like it was chock-full of human fingernails – and made room for the roast pan, as well as the plastic container full of mashed potatoes that Sherlock would need to reheat the next day. She was just finishing up writing down the directions for roasting the chicken when Sherlock marched into the living room, his nose held high in the air.

“Why is there tinsel in my living room?” he barked, fingering the glittering strands with a look of disdain.

Bella didn’t even look up from where she was taking notes. “You needed some holiday spirit.”

“Ugh, _please_ don’t remind me. I still have to figure out a solution to –“

Bella finally raised her eyes to her friend when he paused in the doorway to the kitchen. His eyes, normally narrowed in skepticism, were now wide with shock and disbelief, his eyebrows raised so high they vanished into his dampened dark curls. His lips were parted, frozen around the next words that had died in his throat before reaching his tongue. He flicked his eyes around the room, going from each cookie, to the bread, to the cleaned countertops, to Bella, back to the cookies, back to Bella again…

“I figured you wanted some help, and even if you didn’t, I helped anyway,” Bella shrugged, setting her pen down on the tabletop and standing from her chair. “There’s a chicken ready for roasting in the fridge and a bowl of mashed potatoes to reheat – I wrote the directions down. Please follow them to the letter; we don’t need more of your ‘experimental’ dishes. I made some rosemary bread, a few cookies, and I put up some of our extra decorations. I don’t know what you were expecting, or if you were expecting anything, but I hope that-“

As if punched swiftly in the gut, Bella felt all of the air _whoosh_ its way out of her lungs when Sherlock’s slender but surprisingly strong arms wound their way around her waist, lifted her several inches off her feet, and pressed her whole body firmly against his chest.

The shock of her sudden proximity to Sherlock was completely catatonia-inducing. She struggled to remember how to lift her arms, lean her head against his shoulder, or even twitch a single muscle as she tried to accustom herself with her current position. It wasn’t until warm and gentle words caressed her ear and the tight embrace of Sherlock’s arms squeezed ever-so-slightly around her middle that she felt warmth creep slowly from the very top of her head to the tips of her bare toes.

“Thank you,” Sherlock’s deep voice rumbled, sincerity sugaring every word, a tone Bella had never heard him express or even considered to be in his repertoire. “You did not need to do this, and yet… I genuinely appreciate it.”

As the words wrapped themselves around her heart, Bella finally remembered how to raise her arms higher than her hips, and wound them tightly around Sherlock’s neck, locking her fingers on her forearms. She dipped her chin over his shoulder, and very subtly nuzzled her nose into his quickly-drying curls. They smelled of lavender and mint – a clean, sweet scent that Bella grew to love the more she inhaled.

“No problem at all,” she whispered, tightening her arms a little to get even closer to her friend. “Happy to help.”

They stood there for a while longer, the nearby clock ticking away the seconds as Sherlock continued to keep Bella’s feet lifted off the ground. She could feel the heat of his breath, exhaling out of his nose and hitting the spot just behind her ear. His arms had not loosened, even a little, and the longer Bella dangled in his grip, the more time she had to think, and then _over_ think.

 _I might be with Wade, but… no harm in just allowing myself to daydream, right?_ she questioned her subconscious, waiting for the brusque and rational response.

 _Well… he does smell good,_ it countered, entirely unhelpful.

Thankfully, before Bella could completely give in to her repressed ( _deeply_ repressed… right?) feelings, Sherlock broke the silence, all traces of genuine kindness painted over by his usual calculating manner.

“Is this a normal amount of time for embraces to last? I’m not a particularly avid practitioner myself, but this does seem to be rather drawn-out.” 

With a deep sigh and a small chuckle, Bella unwrapped herself from around Sherlock as he carefully set her back on her feet. As she peered directly upward into his waiting stare, she felt that their height difference was suddenly all the more staggering from this close a distance – she couldn’t imagine how much more intimidating his gaze would feel if she were any shorter.

“Well… thanks for trying to be tactile, anyway,” she chuckled, biting her tongue in an effort to quell the shakiness of her breath. When did she start to feel clammy?

With a quick glance at the clock, she suddenly jumped and began to race around the kitchen, collecting anything she could in an effort to clear the mess of dishes and Christmas decorations. “Shit! I have a hair appointment in twelve minutes, I have to get going! Let me just-“

Long-fingered hands grabbed her smaller ones firmly, pulling Bella’s eyes from the task at hand to Sherlock’s smirking face. “You’ve done enough,” he uttered slowly, lowering Bella’s hands to her sides and patting them into place, his touch lingering as he kept himself in her personal space. “Really, I can take care of cleaning up. Go.”

The air in Bella’s throat halted abruptly as Sherlock’s face crept closer to her own. His breath traipsed its way under her nostrils – it smelled of peppermint toothpaste. Before her brain could register what was about to happen, Sherlock planted a delicate, feather-light kiss high on her cheekbone.

Her heart faltered.

Dammit. Damn him.

As Sherlock retreated and removed his hands from hers, Bella quickly ducked her head and rushed to the door, not wanting to explain the deep-red flush that was blossoming across her entire visage.

“Have a good day, Arabella!” Sherlock called to her back, and without turning back, she weakly lifted a hand in farewell above her head and tripped her way down the stairs.

Her mind raced with what to do and how to feel all through her hair appointment and well into the remainder of the evening.

* * *

Christmas Eve in Baker Street was even more entertaining that the holiday it proceeded, and usually started early and in the kitchen.

The traditions that Bella and her aunt upheld were some of the silliest and most wonderful memories she had of the last two years, especially considering the deeply unsettling and devastating situation she had found herself in before moving to England.

First things first, Aunt Martha would always be up bright and early, and would wait for Bella under the mistletoe she always hung in the doorway between the kitchen and the foyer to greet her with a Christmas kiss on the cheek. Then, rather than tea or coffee and a normal breakfast, Bella would make her famous hot cocoa while her aunt would get to work setting up icing bags and two large square sugar cookies. The two would then sit across from one another and paint portraits of each other on the cookies with the icing – whoever created the silliest depiction got to open a Christmas present early (this year Aunt Martha was the winner, and the prize she unwrapped was a pair of dainty green gloves from her sister, who had mailed her gifts last week).

The next part of the morning (that was usually Bella’s favorite) was a long hot bath in their respective tubs. Aunt Martha usually used the time to catch up on her reading, while Bella would often play music and drift off into a doze - although on this particular holiday, her mind instead wandered to a certain dark-haired detective moving around upstairs.

She’d been hearing him bang about all morning, no doubt making every conceivable effort to keep from burning the meal Bella had prepared, and attempting to tidy up the mess of papers, books and experiments before his parents arrived for dinner.

And somehow, despite her better instincts and her brain begging her to suppress her urges, she found her hands drifting slowly down her skin at the thought of how tightly he had held her yesterday.

When her fingertips had managed their first gentle brush against her sensitive center, a quick buzz jolted her from her thoughts, and her eyes flashed to her glowing phone.

 _WADE_ shone brightly, and Bella dunked herself underneath the surface of the water to shut out all the noise in her head.

After her (rather quick) bath, she joined Aunt Martha in the living room for a lunch of soup and sandwiches from Speedy’s next door (French onion soup and a roast beef melt for Aunt Martha, creamy tomato bisque and a grilled cheese with turkey for Bella) while _Titanic_ played on the television. While it was nowhere near being a Christmas movie, Bella and her aunt could not help but find themselves drawn to the love story, no doubt moved by the romanticism of the holiday itself. Once the movie was finished, Bella would play a few pieces for her Aunt as she drifted into a nap, and then Bella would start on roasting the chicken she had prepared the night before, identical to the one she had left in Sherlock’s refrigerator.

She had heard the open-and-shut of the front door just after her bath a few hours beforehand – she imagined Sherlock’s parents were early-birds, as their son was frequently up and moving swiftly at the crack of dawn (whether he had slept the night before or not). She had not bothered to peek out of the kitchen to see the elder Holmes’, figuring it would be best to give them their privacy and allow them some time with their younger son.

As she drizzled olive oil over the vegetables surrounding the chicken in the pan, very nearly ready for the oven, she thought to what Sherlock must have been like as a child around Christmastime. Had he been playful and spirited about the holiday season, or was he just as sharp and cold then as he was now? Had he been excited about presents and played with toys, or did he not feel the joy of opening a gift meant only for him?

It was at that precise moment, out of the corner of her eye, that Bella noticed the bright red gift bag stuffed with white tissue paper sitting on the floor just inside the kitchen doorway.

_Shit._

On her way back from her hair appointment the previous evening, Bella had stopped by a local shop that sold miscellaneous objects from clothing to art supplies – the owner was a kindly older gentleman who took a shine to Bella’s aunt, so he was always offering her discounts. She had decided to pick up a few last minute gifts for her friend, nothing special, but had forgotten to place it with the other trinkets Aunt Martha had gotten for Sherlock that had been brought upstairs yesterday.

“Damn,” she muttered, sprinkling a few sprigs of rosemary around the mixed vegetables before sliding the tray into place in the preheated oven. She leaned on the shut door after setting the timer, eyeing the bag as the wheels in her head cranked cautiously.

She could just bring it up to his front door and leave it outside – but what if it got kicked over, or what if she placed it too close to the wall and he missed it completely in his peripherals? She could give it to him tomorrow – but she didn’t even know if she would see him tomorrow, as she wasn’t sure what his plans were for the holiday.

She bit her lip as she contemplated just dropping it off inside the flat, not bothering his Christmas dinner. She could easily slip in unnoticed, drop the bag off, and drift back out the door soundlessly. Yeah, that could work!

Before she could remind herself that she was a massive klutz that did not possess a single surreptitious bone in her body, she was halfway up the stairs, balancing on her tiptoes, the small bag clutched tightly in her hands. The door to the flat was wide open, as usual, though the second door that led directly into the kitchen was closed, light seeping through the crack underneath. When she got to the step just below the landing, she paused, listening intently to hear whether or not there were voices. She could hear the scraping of silverware on plates and the mumbled remnants of cheery banter, but nothing more.

Looking through the open door leading to the main room, she spotted it – the small, shiny plastic Christmas tree she had left there the day before. Only now beneath the small wooden table it was perched upon sat a small pile of brightly colored gifts of all shapes and sizes, including the few little trinket boxes Aunt Martha had left yesterday evening. The side table sat beside the armchair closest to the door, so it would be right out of sight of the kitchen – no disturbing anyone, no being caught off guard by any-

“Oh!”

Bella froze, her breath caught in her throat as the door to the kitchen swung open and the light poured out, silhouetting a tall, stately woman with a warm face painted by a look of surprise. Bella turned her head slowly, feeling like a deer caught in high beams, and knew she was directly facing Sherlock’s mother.

“Umm…” she hummed, swallowing thickly in an effort to quell her nervousness. “I’m so sorry to be interrupting, I just-“

“I thought I had heard somebody on the landing!” Mrs. Holmes exclaimed, a bright, wide smile lighting up her face. “Sherlock, there’s somebody here for you!”

Bella heard the soft scraping of a chair, and then Sherlock was standing behind his mother, one eyebrow raised in suspicion. His hair was combed back a bit, likely an effort to look decent for his parents, and his black slim-cut suit was immaculate, paired only with a plain white button-up shirt beneath.

“Arabella?” he questioned, his eyes roving over her face. “Is there something wrong?”

“Oh, Sherlock!” Mrs. Holmes nearly squealed, swatting at her younger son playfully. “ _This_ is Arabella?”

Bella could feel her eyebrows reaching for the sky with surprise. She looked to her friend, watching with a small jolt of smugness as a deep crimson blush spread over his pale cheeks. “He… told you about me?”

“Oh, but of course!” Mrs. Holmes guffawed, wrapping a warm hand around Bella’s forearm and swiftly pulling her through the door. “Hasn’t stopped talking about you. Says you’re a marvel when it comes to his casework. If I didn’t know any better I would say he’s smitten with you!”

“ _Mother,_ ” Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth, steam practically streaming from his ears. “I _never_ said anything of the sort.” He turned his gaze down to Bella, his eyes rolling in exasperation. “Please, Arabella, forgive my mother. She’s not quite the sort to know when tact is necessary.”

“Oh, hush up,” Mrs. Holmes chastised, taking a seat by a thin, gentle-looking man who could have been none other than Sherlock’s father. One look at his face gave it all away – the same elevated sharp cheekbones, the same long, angular nose and high forehead. All he did was smile kindly at Bella, nodding his head in her direction in greeting as his wife prattled on. “I simply want to be sure that my son is happy, and based on the way you’ve spoken about her, she is part of that!” She turned her mega-watt smile back on Bella then, and Bella could see nothing but genuine kindness written across her face. “He told us about how you prepared us this lovely meal. It truly is delicious, darling. Wherever did you learn to cook so marvelously? And I must have the recipe for this rosemary bread, it’s divi-“

Before his mother could finish praising Bella’s kitchen skills, Sherlock grabbed his young friend by the forearm and gently tugged her from the table into a far corner of the living room, his father fondly hushing his wife into a simpler conversation as her topic of interest had left the room.

“I’m so sorry,” Bella whispered, trying to keep her voice low so the Holmes’ wouldn’t be disturbed. “I really didn’t mean to interrupt; I was just trying to bring up a present for you that I forgot to add to the pile Aunt Martha brought up. I had hoped I would be able to sneak it under the tree without bothering you all.”

Sherlock huffed a short breath, running a hand over his curls in a nervous sort of motion. “No, no. Don’t apologize – my mother has better hearing than a bat. You can imagine how difficult it was to get away with any sort of misbehavior as a child when she can hear through walls.” Bella chuckled at that, issuing a small answering smirk from Sherlock. He flicked his eyes up just a bit on her face before meeting her gaze again. “I see you made it to your hair appointment yesterday.”

“Oh!” Bella gasped, reaching up to tuck a lock of newly-cut hair behind her ear. The color hadn’t changed, but the length was up by her neck now, soft bangs sweeping over her forehead. “Yeah, it was time for some much-needed rehabilitation on my part. I know it looks different, but-“

“It suits you,” he said simply, and Bella bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning like an idiot.

“I have to say,” she muttered, swiftly changing the subject, “I didn’t know what to expect from meeting your parents. They seem so…” She fought to find the right word.

“Ordinary? Boring? Plain?” Sherlock offered.

“No. Kind.” Sherlock’s eyes went wide with her response. “It’s just a little jarring when you consider the way both you and Mycroft address people. You’re usually both so brusque – can’t imagine where you got it from having now met those two.”

Taking a second to shake off his momentary stupefaction, Sherlock lifted a hand to point at the bag Bella was still holding. “Was that meant for me?”

“Mhmm,” Bella hummed, sliding the bag strings over his pointed finger and allowing it to dangle on his hand. “It’s just a few silly things, nothing special.”

“Oooo!”, came a delighted shriek from behind them, and Bella turned to see Sherlock’s parents making their way into the room, Mr. Holmes trailing a step behind his wife. “You got Sherlock a Christmas present, dear? Oh Sherlock, you must open it!”

Sherlock sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “Mother, it isn’t yet Christmas, you know.”

“Oh, I know, silly boy,” she clucked, taking Bella’s arm and leading her to the couch along the back wall. “But she brought it up here just for you, and it would be rude not to open it while she’s visiting us!”

Bella plopped down directly between Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, thankfully not a very tight squeeze, and tried very hard not to let her anxiety show. She crossed her arms over her chest and tightened her grip on her shirt sleeves, biting hard on her tongue as the proximity of both of Sherlock’s parents made her more uneasy than she had been since she first met Sherlock himself.

Suddenly, a thin, wrinkled hand came from her left, and she turned to meet the small smile of Mr. Holmes as Sherlock bickered with his mother. “Lovely to meet you, dear. Timothy Holmes, but you can just call me Tim.”

Bella smiled fondly at him, taking his hand in a brief, tight shake. “Arabella Hudson. You can call me Bella. I really do apologize for interrupting your holiday celebrations; I only intended to drop off the present for Sherlock to open tomorrow.”

“Oh, not a bother,” Tim reassured her, patting her knee in a familial sort of way that made Bella’s heart smile. “I was hoping we might get to meet you – first time in quite a while he’s mentioned someone to us and hasn’t discussed how dreadful they are. I believe he even used the phrase ‘pleasant’ when describing you, which I must say for him is a first.”

“ _Dad_ ,” Sherlock growled from across the coffee table, and Bella turned her gaze back to the younger Holmes in the room, watching him weigh the little gift bag back and forth in his slender hands.

“Well, go on, Sherlock,” his mother urged, curling an arm through Bella’s and patting her hand. “Best not to keep company waiting.”

Sherlock turned his eyes to Bella, a silent question dancing in them.

“Go ahead,” she answered, one side of her mouth quirking up. “It’s nothing, really.”

Sherlock shrugged with a small sigh, and lifted the first piece of paper lining out of the bag, tossing it unceremoniously to the floor. He set the bag on the table and bent to lift the first item within – a small box of bow rosin for his violin. He quirked an eyebrow, looking at her out of the corner of his eye with a look that said nothing at all.

“Oh, how thoughtful!” Mrs. Holmes cheered gleefully, clapping her hands together. “For your violin, Sherlock, isn’t that wonderful?”

Sherlock hummed noncommittally, setting the box on the table and moving on to the next item. He pulled out a small set of glass tubes with stoppers, a small pack of labels that washed off with water attached to the case with a little tape.

“For my experiments, I suppose?” he questioned, and Bella nodded once, trying not to feel too bad about his obvious lack of thanks, or even a smile.

Finally, he picked up the final gift from the very bottom of the bag, wrapped in tissue paper. As he ripped the wrapping off, his eyes softened a touch as he ran a hand over the gift.

It was a simple, navy blue scarf with tasseled ends that had caught Bella’s eye as she was about to leave the trinket shop. The material was soft and warm, and the color reminded her of the dark blue dressing gown Sherlock wore on occasion that suited his skin tone so wonderfully. Recalling that his old grey scarf had torn and he had been complaining incessantly for the better part of the last week, she had decided it was a perfect idea for a Christmas gift – something simple and useful that he might actually like.

“Oh, do try it on, dear!” Mrs. Holmes exclaimed, waving a hand at her son to hurry up his efforts.

He didn’t even argue as he unfolded the woolen scarf and wrapped it around his long, elegant neck, folding it in half to make a loop and tucking the ends through before pulling it tighter. The fabric caressed the column of his throat in a way that made scarf-wearing appear almost interesting. And Bella had been correct in her thoughts on the color – it not only set off his pale skin perfectly, but it brought out the darker blues in his eyes, the color shifting from ocean to midnight, and she felt her breath catch for a millisecond when the full force of those eyes turned on her.

“Thank you, Arabella,” Sherlock smiled, genuine emotion framing every word that fell from his mouth. “These gifts were very thoughtful and practical, and I will be glad to use all of them in the future. Especially this scarf.”

Bella smiled, ducking her head and tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “It looks good on you – I’m glad you like it.”

A few seconds of tense silence filled the empty spaces of the flat before Bella stood up slowly, unhooking her arm from Mrs. Holmes’ with a pat on the older woman’s shoulder. “Well, I had better get back downstairs. I have a roast of my own in the oven – don’t want it to burn.” She turned back to Sherlock’s parents one more time, sticking a hand out for both of them to shake. “It really was a pleasure meeting you both. I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.”

Tim only smiled, while Mrs. Holmes ran off on a spiel of pleasantries. As she passed by her friend, she looked up into his eyes once more and smiled fondly, nodding once in farewell. “Sherlock.”

He returned the small smile, his eyes glinting with what almost looked like tenderness, if he could ever be considered to be so. “Arabella.”

With that, she made her way back down the stairs just as the smell of rosemary and butter began to waft its way up.

The remainder of the afternoon passed uneventfully, with Bella and her aunt playing cards long into the evening at the kitchen table while they ate their Christmas Eve dinner. The roast chicken was juicy and succulent, and the vegetables were as flavorful as ever. Bella was finishing the dishes when she heard the front door in the foyer open and shut, signaling the departure of Sherlock’s parents. Just as Bella hung the dish towel on the handle of the oven, the tall detective himself trudged his way into the kitchen unannounced, setting himself upon a chair and slumping onto the table.

“Oh, come on,” Bella laughed, reaching for the kettle on the shelf. “It couldn’t have been that bad. They were very sweet.”

“To you,” Sherlock mumbled, his nimble fingers coming up to scratch across his scalp, releasing the gelled-back curls back into their casual disarray. “With just the two of them and myself, the conversation always turns to everyday topics, like the news or the weather, or – Lord forbid – my future.”

Bella snorted, turning the burner beneath the now-full kettle on full blast and reaching for the mugs in the cabinet. “What about your future? They don’t like having a consulting detective for a younger son?”

“No, not about my work. About my future as a ‘perfectly acceptable partner’ in a romantic sense.”

Bella nearly dropped the tin of tea leaves she had just picked up. “They want you to get married?”

Sherlock sighed, long and deep, the kind of sound that speaks so evidently of repetitive agitation. “My father could care less – I have always admired him for his lack of influence and attempts to broaden my social horizons. It’s my mother that is positively obsessed with the inane idea that I ought to be married off and starting a family. Says I’m old enough now and there’s no point in waiting. She’s retired and lacks in things to keep her brain occupied, and I suppose she thinks running around with rambunctious grandchildren will put her mind at ease.”

Bella gulped heavily before turning around to place the mugs and tea on the table, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes as though he were a Gorgon and she would turn to stone upon meeting his stare. She hoped the stuttering beat of her heart was not so thunderous that he could hear it through her bones and skin. “What about Mycroft?”

Her friend chortled once, sitting up slowly and leaning back in the chair. “They gave up on him before my existence was even a consideration to them.”

Bella laughed at that, turning quickly back to the kettle as it began to whistle. She fought desperately to get her heart rate back under control as the thought of Sherlock marrying some confident, ethereally beautiful person entered into her mind unbidden. She pictured wavy blonde hair and a smile that made all men and women weak in the knees. The pooling of dread in her stomach slowed her movements, and her analytical mind attacked her subconscious viciously, reminding her of her commitment to Wade, and reiterating Sherlock’s more childish tendencies.

It was like a breath of air to a drowning man when Aunt Martha paraded into the room, her dressing gown and slippers on, thin half-rim glasses perched on the edge of her nose. “Oh, Sherlock! I didn’t think we would be seeing you this evening!” With that, she engaged Sherlock in a deep conversation about his plans for New Years, effectively cutting off their previous topic of Sherlock’s romantic prospects.

As the three of them sipped their tea around the table, Bella took the opportunity to process her emotions toward the man sitting across from her, his usually cold demeanor replaced with a half-smile and a glint of amusement in his slanted eyes. In these last few weeks of particular closeness between them, she had watched her friend edge a little more out of his shell-shaped mind every day, inching closer and closer to acting almost human, at least around her and Aunt Martha. She couldn’t figure if it was the new environment of Baker Street, the casework, or maybe his newfound sobriety that was causing him to develop a heart, but in the back of her mind, not for the first time, she pondered whether or not it was something to do with her, just as his mother had said.

 _No!_ her subconscious immediately screamed, coming to the forefront so fast it nearly made her wince. _Think about Wade! Think about how crazy Sherlock makes you! Think of ANYTHING ELSE! That man is_ not _for you!_

As if a sign from above, Bella felt her phone dance in her pocket and pulled it up to her eyes. The screen notified of a new text from Wade, and she opened it immediately, grateful for the reprieve from her thoughts of Sherlock. ‘On my way over before heading to my parents – just dropping off your Christmas present. Around the corner now’, it read, and Bella felt her stomach twist in guilt. Wade was easy, and kind for the most part – he treated her well, and here she was trying to wrap her mind around the statuesque enigma that was her closed-off and cold housemate and work partner.

“Well ladies,” Sherlock remarked, standing slowly from his seat and smoothing the front of his suit jacket as Bella sent a thumbs up to Wade, setting her phone face-down on the table. “I am going back to the peace of my own flat – I have quite a bit of cleaning to do, what with dishes and the tissue paper from the presents my mother made me open strewn across the floor. I take my leave of you – thank you for the tea.”

“Sherlock,” Aunt Martha clucked, putting a hand on his arm to stop him leaving as Bella stood from the table to grab the now-empty mugs to put them in the sink. “Why don’t you come spend tomorrow with us? If you have no other plans, that is.”

“I don’t,” Bella heard him muse, her back turned as she started washing out the mugs and setting them aside to dry. She tried to keep her focus steady on her hands as she continued. “My intention was to work on an experiment or two, but as there seems to be a lull in cases, I’m sure I could spare the time. If, of course, it’s alright with your niece.”

Bella let out a snort, turning back to face the older man. She leaned her back against the lip of the sink, crossing her arms over her chest in an effort to brace her heart back before it leapt out through her ribcage. “I see no reason why not. I’m just surprised you’re saying yes when I asked you a week ago and the look you gave me could have cut a diamond.”

“Yes, well,” he sighed, putting a spidery hand over the one Aunt Martha still had wrapped around his forearm. He lifted her hand from his sleeve to his mouth, pressing a chaste kiss to her skin with a smirk. “That was you asking. This is your aunt.”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” Aunt Martha chastised, swatting at Sherlock’s face as he stood back to his full height. Bella shook her head with an exasperated smile, staring at her toes, when a knock sounded at the front door.

“Oh, that’ll be for me!” She stood from her spot by the sink and started rushing towards the exit of the kitchen to the foyer, nearly running right into Sherlock in the process. “Oh, sorry – you go ahead.”

“No, no,” Sherlock tutted, extending an arm out for her to go ahead of him. “Ladies first, please.”

Bella rolled her eyes and started forward, taking all of two steps before Aunt Martha began to squawk from behind them.

“Oooo, wait! Wait!” she shouted gleefully, beaming as Sherlock and Bella turned back to look at her with matching concerned expressions. “You’re both standing under the mistletoe!”

Bella balked, feeling Sherlock’s breath come to a stop beside her. With wide and frightened eyes, she looked up above her head, spotting the small green sprig of leaves and berries tied with a bright red bow. In all of the day’s festivities, it had slipped her mind completely that the little bobble existed at all. She could see Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bob in her peripheral, his jaw ticking with sudden nerves. She could relate.

She snapped her head back down as another knock came at the door behind her. “Oh, Aunt Martha! No, we can’t – Wade’s at the door, and I’m sure Sherlock wouldn’t want to-“

“Mrs. Hudson, this is ridiculous,” Sherlock spoke over Bella, his drawling voice laced with trepidation and deep frustration. “A sprig of poisonous plant is not enough to make me-“

“You have to!” Aunt Martha shouted over both of them, stamping her foot in an effort to shut down the room. “It’s a Christmas tradition! It’s not _my_ fault you both ended up there, but now that you have, you have to kiss! Those are the rules!”

“ _Aunt Martha,_ ” Bella hissed, as Sherlock sighed beside her. “Wade is-“

“Arabella,” came a deep, velvety baritone. Bella looked up into the eyes (moss green) of her friend, and could clearly read the discomfort and resignation within their depths. “We are clearly stuck in a predicament that we can only escape one way. So let’s just…” With that, he shrugged, running a hand along the back of his head nervously.

Bella looked back and forth between Sherlock and her aunt, suddenly wondering how she had gotten stuck in this particular moment in time as her heart began to jump about like a kangaroo in her chest. This couldn’t be happening – not now, not when she was trying so hard to block out whatever it was that she had begun to feel for him, not when she was all too easy to read.

She stared up at her friend, knowing she likely looked like a fish gasping in the open air. She felt her eyes bulging out of her head as Sherlock smirked at her, his nimble fingers suddenly coming up under her chin, gently tilting her head further upwards until her lips were poised in the air, a shuddering breath blowing out from between the slight part of them. She allowed her mind to drift ever so slightly as his eyes bored into her own, and thought about whether or not Sherlock had ever even been kissed before. Surely he had to have been – he was seven years her senior, and there was no denying he was a handsome and charming man, when he wanted to be. He had to have kissed other people before… right?

“Arabella,” he whispered lowly, his voice taking on the tinge of a growl as he broke her train of thought. “Stop thinking so much.”

She hadn’t realized in her musings that he had actually gotten closer, half-bent forward to reach her level, his warm breath ghosting over her face, the scent of tea still lingering in it. She gulped heavily, blinking sharply once or twice to clear her head. She fought tirelessly to calm the nerves that made her whole body vibrate, realizing how rigid and stiff she had become while standing before him.

A bloom of warmth across her lower back made the shivers halt abruptly, and she stumbled forward a step or two, her hands coming to rest on Sherlock’s firm, bony chest before she fell into it. Her eyes flashed to his, and the expression there was unreadable as he searched her own face, his shoulder flexing in the corner of her vision. She then realized the warmth was Sherlock’s palm, and the loss of her footing was caused by a gentle coaxing nudge to bring her closer, likely in an effort to quell her nervous shaking.

Within the circle of his arms, she felt it again, just like she had in his flat yesterday when he’d hugged her – a calming, tingling sort of peace that flooded her senses and allowed her to really look at him without fear or nerves. He looked resigned but calm, his eyebrows raised slightly as though he were sighing, his forehead nearly pressed to her own. She thought she could stay trapped in this moment forever, and wondered where the voice of reason had gone in her mind, why it wasn’t telling her to stop and step back, to go get the door, to break this trance she’d fallen under.

 _There is no rhyme or reason behind this,_ came a different voice – a softer, more serious, velvety tone echoing through her mind, and she realized with a jolt whose it was. It was Sherlock’s own voice, somehow in her head, reasoning with her in his cold, calculating manner. _Just kiss me._

As her inner Sherlock spoke the words, the real Sherlock leaned ever nearer, his eyes fluttering closed as a sigh left his lips. Throwing caution out the window, Bella tightened her fingers around the lapels of his jacket, holding on for dear life as she allowed her eyes to slip closed and shifted up on her toes, imperceptibly closer.

A harsh, abrasive cough sliced through the tension like a rough axe swing, and Bella pushed Sherlock off brusquely, the small chuckle fading in her head a sharp juxtaposition to the suddenly closed-off face of the owner of the voice. She turned to the now-occupied hallway and felt her heart drop into her stomach.

Wade, his face a mask of perfect calm, stood with his shoulders back and his fists clenched, one wrapped tightly around the handles of a small gift bag stuffed with sparkling tissue paper. While his eyes gave nothing away, Bella could see the set of his mouth hiding clenched teeth, and the tips of his ears began to glow bright red, the freckles fading as the colors changed.

“Wade,” she breathed, staring back and forth between her boyfriend and her… what was Sherlock to her, exactly? She shook the thought off speedily and pointed up at the little sprig of mistletoe above her, giving Wade a look she hoped conveyed the innocence of the moment he had walked in on. “Aunt Martha had us trapped.”

He continued not to speak, and turned his gaze to Sherlock, his mask melting away as his eyes turned to slits and his eyebrows bunched in suspicion. “Mr. Holmes.”

“Mr. Addair,” Sherlock clipped, his tone biting and icy. Bella resisted every urge to look at her neighbor, but could see his spine straighten in her peripheral, his hands going behind his back in a formal position, much like a soldier.

The two men continued to stare at each other for what felt like minutes, but could not have been more than five seconds. When the air felt so thick with tension one thought they might suffocate, Sherlock stalked past Bella and whisked past Wade without a word or a backward glance, his footsteps resounding through the room as he took to the stairs.

“Sherlock,” Bella called, moving ever-so-slightly for the foyer to chase after him. A hard, powerful grip trapped her forearm, stopping her in place, and she stared into the emerald depths of her boyfriend’s irate eyes, and was almost scared of the jealousy and indignation written there. Her feet dropped back to the floor and her shoulders slumped, her mind reeling with the memory of the last minute and a half.

She wanted to explain to Wade that there was nothing going on, but she knew now that was likely a lie. Despite effort after effort to push her feelings aside, she knew her emotions were easier now than they had ever been.

And if the grip on her arm was any indication, Wade could already feel her slipping away.

* * *

For a late Saturday night, the city of London was shockingly quiet. Lights were bright and taxis were rushing the streets looking for the weary wandering travelers, but people were in their homes now, enjoying the warm afterglow of the holiday season, savoring the last remnants of calm before workplaces and schools opened their doors again on Monday morning.

Bella watched from her perch on the rooftop, her legs dangling over the edge as she sipped from her water bottle, shivering as the breeze licked at her exposed arms and shoulders. January in London was too brisk for her simple tank-top and sweatpants, but she hadn’t thought she’d be taking quite so long a moment of reflection when she came out here – her only intent had been to dance until she could release the tightness she’d been feeling in her chest for the better part of the last twelve days.

After the incident on Christmas Eve, Sherlock had not spoken to Bella, and had kept his doors shut at all times. She listened for violin every night, to no avail, and he had stopped visiting her aunt for tea each morning as well. Were it not for the long coat and the blue scarf she had given him still hanging in the foyer every night, she would swear he never existed at all.

On the Wade front, the tension had come to a breaking point on New Year’s Eve, with an explosive argument just before the clock struck midnight. Sherlock had decided to put together a small party with a few people, leaving Bella off of that list of course. She’d stayed in the living room of her aunt’s home, watching with Aunt Martha as the people on television gathered in the London streets to watch the annual fireworks display, Big Ben ticking away the moments until 2007 ended and 2008 began. No more than three minutes before the countdown started, a knock had come at the foyer, and Wade had stood there fuming, his mind already made up about how Bella was spending her evening. The argument had ended with the door slamming shut, Bella with her back against it, as the whole of 221B cheered above her – all save one.

While she hadn’t seen his face, she knew Sherlock had been within earshot – the heel of his shoe had still been visible when she had turned around from the door, no doubt making a swift retreat so as not to disturb her. She had stayed sitting on the floor, her back still pressed to the black wooden door, until Aunt Martha had come into the foyer twenty minutes past midnight and found Bella half-asleep with tears running down her face.

Since then, Bella had been putting all of her efforts into preparing for the upcoming semester – keeping her winter plants healthy, practicing the more difficult piano pieces she had been struggling with until they were pristine, doing laundry and cleaning her room, everything that had nothing to do with Sherlock Holmes. She had felt the urge more than once to fall back into self-harming habits, and cursed her (former) friend for making her feel the need to toss out all her razors – instead, she found a new form of self-torture. She was already eating so little as it was due to fixating on avoiding Sherlock, that it was easy to forget whole meals entirely, and survive on little more than water and a biscuit or two at teatime. She knew she must be worrying Aunt Martha with these antics, but she also knew there was nothing she could do to stop herself until her negative energies had run their course.

And that led her to the here and now, sitting on the rooftop, almost midnight on a Saturday evening, shivering cold and wondering how she had ended up here.

“Do you own a proper jumper, or do you enjoy being chilled to the bone?”

The sudden voice nearly made Bella topple over off of the rooftop, and she reached a hand to grip the ledge behind her. A pair of strong, warm hands gripped her by the waist and pulled her back a bit, safely away from harm, and they remained until she had steadied herself enough to turn around and see her rescuer.

It was, of course, none other than her favorite detective, and she took a deep breath as she studied him, almost as though she were looking upon him for the first time. His eyes were a darker blue today, with black rimming the irises, and they were wide and filled with worry. His dark curls were damp – likely he had just taken a shower – and he wore a plain grey t-shirt and striped pajama bottoms underneath of his favorite dark blue dressing gown. His feet, normally bare, were tucked inside of the warm slipper-shoes Aunt Martha had bought him for Christmas. “The man never wears anything on his feet unless he’s in full-dress,” she had muttered while wrapping them. “He’ll catch a cold one of these days.”

It was the most underdressed and most ‘human’ she had seen him be since their first night meeting on the roof, though this time, her palms were sweating rather than stinging when she looked up at him, meeting his fox-tilted, panicky eyes.

“Are you alright?” he questioned, his hands resting on Bella’s shoulders. “I didn’t mean to frighten you – I shouldn’t have surprised you like that while you were sitting on the edge of a rooftop, I apologize.”

“It’s, uh…” Bella took a moment to clear her throat, shrugging her shoulders inward, away from his hands. “It’s fine. I’m sorry if I disturbed you, Sh- Mr. Holmes.”

At hearing his surname, Sherlock’s eyebrows knitted together, and he stood to his full, towering height, shoving his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown. “You did nothing of the sort, _Miss Hudson.”_ He hissed the name, and Bella felt a chill run down her spine at the hint of irritation in his voice. “Though,” he continued, “I must say I am perturbed by your sudden use of honorifics. Have I done something to offend you?”

Bella laughed darkly, shaking her head. He really could be so obtuse. “No, though I daresay I have offended you in some way.” She stood then, and though she came up to no more than his mid-chest, she tried her best to look down her nose at him. “You haven’t spoken to me in almost two weeks, Sherlock. I don’t know what I did or didn’t do, but either way, I’m sorry if I hurt you, or upset you, or… whatever.”

There was a moment of silence where several emotions crossed Sherlock’s face; confusion, annoyance, dawning comprehension, amusement, and then his entire visage dissolved into outright joviality. He started to snicker lightly, which then morphed into the loudest laugh Bella had ever heard him make, or possibly ever heard in her lifetime. A few guffaws were so loud Bella thought he might wake the whole street. Had she looked over the side of the rooftop, she was sure she would see a few faces peering up towards them.

He wiped a few streaming tears from under his eyes, attempting to catch his breath. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t be laughing.” He took another moment or two to compose himself, then stood back to his full height, his casual smirk lifting one corner of his mouth. “Arabella, if anything I should be the one apologizing.”

“For what?” 

“I can’t say that my reaction to Mr. Addair’s sudden appearance on Christmas Eve was very appropriate,” he drawled, taking a seat on the ledge and leaning back on his palms. “I’ll admit I was rather… abrupt in my leaving you. And I am sincerely sorry that I didn’t come by on Christmas Day like I had promised – that is unforgivably rude of me.”

Bella cautiously took a seat next to him, keeping about a foot of distance between them. “And?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “And what?”

“And you ignored me for the better part of the last two weeks. Why is that?”

“Ah,” he huffed, leaning forward a bit to perch his elbows atop his knees. “See, that was simply a misplaced judgment on my part. I had thought that by you pushing me away so abruptly when Mr. Addair had walked in that night, that you were maybe embarrassed by me.”

“Oh,” Bella sighed, hanging her head as another brisk breeze made her shiver violently.

A soft rustling beside her made her flinch before a slight warmth came over her shoulders, and Sherlock was crouched in front of her, smug smirk still planted on his face. Glancing to her right, she saw that he had wrapped his dressing gown over her shoulders, and she shook her head, eyes trained back on her feet. “Do you ever tire of being chivalrous?”

He huffed out a short chortle. “I only act chivalrous for those who act chivalrous towards me,” he stated, and the words caused Bella to meet his eyes head-on. For what may have been the very first time, there were no walls between them – every bit of emotion was laid bare for her to see in his oceanic gaze, all the feelings he normally kept so buried suddenly brought forward into the cold night air around them. “That was a very kind thing you did for me, Arabella. No one has ever been so forgiving and understanding of me, not to the extent you have been. Though I am sorry that your relationship was ruined over it.”

Bella lifted the corner of her mouth in a sad half-smile, recalling the events of New Years Eve that had led to her current singleness.

_The night had been relatively calm, the only real interruptions being the comings and goings of the few guests Sherlock had invited into the flat above. Bella and Aunt Martha had opted to have a quiet night in, since it appeared their upstairs tenant had not intended to invite them to his get-together._

_However, the night took an abrupt turn into disarray the moment the hollow echo of a knock at the front door of 221B Baker Street sounded through the hall, causing Bella to turn to her aunt curiously._

_“That’s weird,” she said, trying to recall the small list of Sherlock’s companions that would have been invited to his soiree. Molly, Lestrade, a couple of people she didn’t recognize that were likely acquaintances from college… that was the extent of the list. “I thought all of Sherlock’s guests would have been here by now. It’s nearly midnight.”_

_“Well, go see who it is,” Aunt Martha encouraged, waving a hand in the direction of the foyer as she curled further into her armchair. “I’m much too comfortable to move right now.”_

_Bella rolled her eyes fondly as she moved into the entryway, bringing the flannel blanket she had draped over her shoulders tighter around her to block out the chill. She slipped on her house shoes that were tucked underneath the table beside the door and turned the handle, not bothering to look through the peephole first to identify her guest._

_She had not expected to find a fuming Wade on her doorstep, his emerald eyes practically glowing with rage. The tips of his ears were so red they blended into his hair, and despite the chilly air, she could tell that the tremor of his entire body had nothing to do with his body temperature._

_“Umm,” she hummed, biting her lip. “Hi?”_

_Wade snorted, a rough, unpleasant sound. “Were you planning on telling me about this little New Years get-together? Or were you just going to leave me in the dark about it?”_

_“What?” Bella almost laughed, caught off guard. “You mean Sherlock’s party? How did you even know about that?”_

_“Don’t play dumb with me, Bella!” Wade nearly shouted, his face starting to take on the color of a candy apple. “I can hear the music, I can see the lights on up there! Don’t tell me you weren’t up there with-“ here, he paused, gritting his teeth and swallowing loudly, “him.”_

_Realization dawned, and Bella sighed, long and loud. She had hoped the last few days apart had been enough to placate her boyfriend and finish the whole situation. Evidently, she’d been wrong. “Wade, he didn’t invite me. I’ve been downstairs with my aunt all night.”_

_“Stop lying!” he commanded, stamping his foot angrily as he stepped ever closer to the door. Instinctively, Bella closed the wood a little more, shutting off further advances, but Wade hardly noticed. “You’ve been lying to me, I know it! I’ve known ever since I walked in at Christmas! You’re in love with the freak, admit it!”_

_While the entirety of the tirade made Bella start to radiate with anger, one particular word stopped her cold. “Freak?”_

_“Yeah,” Wade faltered, his eyebrows furrowing. “He’s a freak. The man is practically a walking definition of psychopath, Bella! He’s rude, he’s-“_

_“First of all,” Bella loudly interjected, effectively cutting Wade off, “he is a sociopath. Not a psychopath, there is a difference. You ought to know that by now, you have a psychology minor. Secondly, and I mean this effective right now – we’re over.”_

_While watching Wade’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline, Bella heard the telltale countdown to midnight, signaling the end of not only her relationship but the year 2007._

_“I’m sorry… you’re breaking up with me?” Wade continued to stand there, sputtering, looking for all the world like the victim of this situation. “For what?!”_

_Bella bit back her anger, staring into the face of the man – no, boy – she thought she could have loved. Forcing herself to lower from a boil to a simmer, she spoke through clenched teeth, her grip tight on the door as the seconds were counted out loudly in the house behind her. “Nobody – and I mean_ nobody _– deserves to be called a freak. Sherlock is not a freak, Wade. In fact, he is a better man than you will ever even hope to be. He is wildly smart, and sympathetic to those who matter to him. And while he may judge those around him, it is all based in fact, not in wild accusations and vague meetings. He’s my friend, and he actually understands me on a level no one I have ever met has been able to match. So if he’s a freak, I’m a freak too. And I would rather continue to be a freak by his side than come anywhere close to yours ever again. Goodbye, Wade.”_

_With a note of finality, Bella slammed the door in Wade’s shocked face, his handsomeness suddenly replaced in her mind with something utterly repulsive. As the voices above cheered the start of a new year, and as the dark shoe she had spotted disappeared from view around the corner of the stairs, Bella breathed out a heavy, deep sigh._

“That _was_ you,” she mused, smiling a little. “You had heard the whole thing.”

“I hadn’t intended to eavesdrop,” Sherlock shrugged, standing straight and shifting back and forth on his feet. His forearms, glowing white in the light from the moon above and the city below, twisted to and fro as his hands shifted uncomfortably in his pockets. “I thought the knock at the door had been someone for my gathering. I didn’t expect anyone else, but I thought I would check. I didn’t realize until then how much your Mr. Addair had despised me.”

“Yeah, well,” she shrugged, slipping her arms through the sleeves of the dressing gown, “he’s a jerk. And I was foolish enough to look past it until then.”

“Not foolish,” Sherlock mused. “Blinded, maybe. Jaded, sure. But I would hardly call you foolish under any circumstances, Arabella.”

Bella hummed, glancing over her shoulder at the expanse of London below. A few drunkards swayed down the street, singing a drinking song off-key and loudly, arm-in-arm as they bounced off of the walls of buildings they walked by.

“I have to thank you for what you said.”

Bella turned back, and was stunned to see Sherlock looking… sheepish. His head was bowed, dark curls trembling in the breeze, the toes of his slippers turned inwards. He looked like an overgrown five-year-old, timid and shy in a way she had never seen a twenty-seven-year-old man look.

“No one has ever… defended me quite like that,” he continued, and Bella could tell it was a challenge for him to find the right words without sounding, well, like himself. “Not even Mycroft or my parents have ever… anyway… thank you.”

At this, Bella stood, all feelings of apprehension towards the man in front of her effectively washed away. Without hesitation, she reached a finger underneath his tucked chin and tilted his head until he was looking at her directly, his eyes wide and shy. It was so unlike him Bella had to remind herself of whom it was that was standing before her.

“You’re my best friend, Sherlock. The first one I’ve ever really had. Even though you annoy the hell out of me more often than not,” she teased, and felt the telltale squeeze on her heart as he smiled, full and bright, a rare thing for him. “And I meant what I said. If you’re a freak, I’m a freak.”

He chuckled at that, shaking his head slightly as he took Bella’s outstretched hand and pressed it gently in his fingers.

Suddenly – and Bella would forever wonder how his emotions and train of thought could have flipped so abruptly – his eyes went wide and his face paled, his gentle grip on Bella’s hand tightening into a vice.

“Sherlock? Are you having a stroke?” Bella half-joked, staring up at her friend expectantly. She began to worry for all of a second before Sherlock tossed her hand down and turned on his heel, striding towards her small speaker and iPod perched on a ledge by the door to the roof.

“Sherlock?” she asked again, still met with silence as he picked up her iPod and started to fiddle with it for a moment. A few seconds later, the lilting intro to ‘Stolen’ by Dashboard Confessional began to play. Before she could ask, Sherlock whirled on his heel – rather gracefully – and took a few steps toward her, stopping about a foot away before bowing slightly and sticking out a hand to her.

“What’s this?” Bella chuckled, eyeing his extended hand warily. His elegant fingers rolled back and forth once in a ‘come hither’ motion, and she looked up into his eyes apprehensively. They looked mischievous.

“I owe you a Christmas present, I believe,” Sherlock purred, his wickedly dark voice turning velvety. “You gave me such lovely and thoughtful gifts and I thought I would return the favor. Dance with me.”

Bella thought her eyebrows might fly right off of her forehead as her eyes bulged out of her head. “D-dance? With you?”

Before the lyrics could start to fill the air, Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance and reached his outstretched hand further and down, enfolding Bella’s hand in his own and pulling her the last few inches further, until she had to look straight up to see his face.

While she was still attempting to register what it was that was happening, Sherlock wrapped one arm around her upper waist, his hand splaying out around the back of her ribcage, and took one of her hands in his free one, lifting it a little above her shoulder as he started to move in time to the music.

“Since when do you listen to contemporary American music?” she joked, trying hard to fight against the vibrations her body was starting to exhibit, nerves playing catch-up to the moment.

“I don’t,” he answered matter-of-factly. “It was the first song on your ‘Dance Playlist’, so I thought it might be suitable.” He pursed his lips then, listening for a moment to the song he had picked. “Though it’s a bit more romantic than I hoped.”

Bella shook her head, chuckling, before straightening herself up and starting to move fluidly with her dance partner, following his lead and forgetting the rest of the world around her as the song swelled to the chorus.

At every twist of his hand in hers, she spun. At every press of his hold on her back, she dipped. She had never been so in sync with a partner, finding that they tended to lean into the same moves and steps seamlessly, as though they had created this choreography together and had practiced it before. At one moment, he spun her out from his body to spin her back in, and when she had hit her mark she braced a hand on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart beneath clothes and skin. She looked up into his eyes, looking for any sort of emotion, and watched as he smirked in his usual condescending way before arranging them back into position to keep dancing.

As the dance continued, they didn’t speak, laugh, or make any sort of sound. Other than their breathing, the only thing to fill the empty spaces of the night was the music, and with all speech gone for the time being, Bella started to let her mind drift as she watched the man in front of her. Without the thought of her relationship with Wade to decide her feelings, her mind conjured thoughts of Sherlock without holding back, and she felt that squeeze around her heart again as she fought to bite back the rapidly growing emotions that threatened to spill out of her.

Sherlock’s hands clasped around hers, with Bella’s hands dwarfed by Sherlock’s long, elegant ones. Sherlock’s gentle touch, long and lingering, like Bella was a piece of evidence to inspect. The way he sometimes watched Bella study a crime scene, his eyes calculating and impatient, or the way he gazed at her in the midst of introspective conversation, when his vulnerabilities showed just a little. The sparkle of intellect in those ever-changing eyes that made her breath freeze in her throat. His drawling, smooth baritone voice that made her stomach do flips every time he called her ‘Arabella’, the only person to refer to her by her full name.

“Do you trust me?” he suddenly whispered down to her, his lips ghosting over the shell of her ear.

She came back to herself then, nearly tripping over her own feet in surprise as she was slammed back into the moment. “I’m sorry, what?”

He stood up higher then, glancing at her with one eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Do you trust me, Arabella?”

There it was again, that squeeze on her heart, like a cage full to burst, ready to explode. She gulped once, and decided that since all other cautions had been thrown to the wind, she would be perfectly honest.

“With my life.”

At that, he let out a laughing breath through his nose, a small smile tilting his lips, and his eyes glinted playfully. “Good,” he uttered, his voice low and deep. “Then follow my lead.”

After another few easy steps along the rooftop, Sherlock suddenly spun Bella out from his body as the song hit a crescendo toward the final chorus. However, Bella realized his plan as she saw the ledge coming closer as she spun, having to jump up onto it, her feet barely maintaining their balance as she suddenly came face-to-face with the city below her. She tightened her grip on his hand as he walked her a few steps across the ledge, his smile never changing.

And then he began to twirl his hand.

In an effort to follow his motions, Bella started to spin, not realizing how close to the edge she had gotten. One of her feet lost hold of the ground, landing on the empty air over the ledge, and she saw Sherlock’s eyes grow wide with fear as she continued to slip.

Without pausing, he pulled the hand she still had clasped in his, and Bella felt a minor scrape of the concrete on her ankle as she was pulled back to safety, Sherlock’s arm going underneath her knees as the other let go of her hand and wound around her back, carrying her bridal-style as the song hit its final climax.

For a moment, the two stared into one another’s eyes, and Bella watched Sherlock’s flick back-and-forth across her face, worry etched across his gaze. She felt his arms, so much stronger than she had thought them to be, tighten around her a little in concern. His breath came out in gusts, washing over her face as he waited for her to react, and she felt his heartbeat, so steady while they had danced, beating erratically through the material of his thin shirt, her hand having come to rest over it.

In the few seconds between them, as the music started to fade, Bella realized it.

Wade had been right.

The feelings she had been hoping to stuff away and shut down were now back in full force and then some.

She was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

The cage around her heart exploded, and she felt it beat boldly, blood rushing up to her cheeks and coloring them rosy.

As the adrenaline began to wear off, and the romantic feelings began to set in, Bella laughed. She laughed at the fact she had nearly fallen off a rooftop. She laughed at the shocked look on Sherlock’s face. She laughed at herself for developing such deep feelings for a man who would likely never return them. She laughed at the direction her life had taken, so preposterous and insane and yet, she laughed harder knowing she never wanted it to change.

Sherlock, initially stunned by her odd behavior, started to smile warmly, the fear and worry slowly melting away from his eyes. He joined her laughter, pulling her slightly tighter to his body as she leaned her head on his shoulder, the rumble of his chuckles reverberating from his chest into her own.

They laughed for what felt like hours when the distant chime of Big Ben interrupted their mirth, signaling the end of the evening and the start to a new day. It was now January 6th, and Bella took a moment to remember the significance of the day while Sherlock’s laughter abated.

“Happy birthday, Sherlock,” Bella nearly whispered, and Sherlock’s last few chuckles stopped altogether.

He lifted one eyebrow, the corner of his mouth following the turn upwards. “How did you know?”

“I’m the landlady’s niece – I look at residence applications too, you know.”

He hummed, and slowly lowered Bella back to her feet. She missed the hold of his arms immediately, feeling the cool wind sharply cut through the warmth that had lingered in the places he had touched her. They stood facing each other, the moment of the dance now gone, and Sherlock shoved his hands back in his pockets, letting out a breath as he looked up at the sky.

“Twenty eight,” he muttered, whether to himself or to Bella she couldn’t tell. “Still so much to do.”

A few tense moments passed as Sherlock watched the stars above his head, and Bella had to massively bolster her strength to resist wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing herself into his chest in that moment.

“Well…” she drawled, crossing her arms over her chest to prevent herself from moving closer to him, “is there anything in particular you want to start with?”

He let out a soft breath, then slowly lowered his eyes back to Bella’s, an idea sparking in them. “I think I would rather enjoy a cup of tea. Maybe a biscuit as well to celebrate. Care to join me?”

Bella felt her heart leap in her chest, and tried not to smile too wide as she answered, “Love to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, guys, I am SO SORRY this took forever to write. I genuinely hope that the next chapter will come easier - I'm trying to figure some life stuff out right now. Bare with me! Hope you all enjoyed this super long chapter. <3


End file.
